


What Malfoys Don't Do

by Lady_Slytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Repression, mentions of suicidal thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Slytherin/pseuds/Lady_Slytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things that Malfoys simply don't do.  They don't cry, or show any emotion unless entirely unavoidable.  They don't back down.  And they certainly don't admit that maybe, just maybe, they might be wrong about a few things.</p>
<p>Draco's back for his eighth year, and with everything that's changed, these basic rules will soon be called into question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what the plan is here. I actually wasn't planning to write this at all, but then I did. I hope to update every one to two weeks, but I'll have to see how it goes. So far, it's primarily Draco's point of view, with a bit of Harry's to help fill in the blanks. I think it'll stay that way. Rating may change depending on what I write.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated, and keeps me writing fast.
> 
> Thanks to wandsonly for being a fabulous beta.

There was no reason to go back to Hogwarts. No reason at all, except that if he didn’t, everyone would talk about how Draco Malfoy had backed down. How Draco Malfoy had lost his nerve, how he was too ashamed to show his ugly ferret face. (And wasn’t it just grand, that part of Potter’s legacy had been to leave him that name?) How he was a coward.

Malfoys were supposed to know what was being said about them, but act as though they didn’t, and Draco knew what people would say if he didn’t go back. Nobody would suspect that maybe he was tired of being constantly watched and just wanted to stay home with his mother, who would be under house arrest for the next several years. Or that he didn’t need his NEWTs because it wasn’t as though anybody would hire him anyway.

Nobody would suspect that the reason he didn’t want to go back was that he was still plagued by nightmares, ones that involved people he loved falling into large, consumptive flames, or a snake faced man stroking cold hands across his chin and telling him to torture someone, _for the greater good._

Nobody would suspect any of those things, and Draco didn’t want them to. If nothing else, he would retain a semblance of normalcy. He would sneer at the Gryffindors, as though he didn’t realize that they’d won. He’d do well in Potions and Charms, and manage to pass all of his other classes with decent enough grades. He would date Pansy, and find a minion to replace Crabbe, and make fun of the Weasel for being poor and Potter for having no family and Longbottom for everything else. It would be hard, but not impossible, and it wouldn’t break him.

After all, he was a Malfoy. And if living in the same home as the darkest wizard of all time wasn’t enough to break him, he didn’t see how anything could.

All the same, he hadn’t thought that the attempts to break him would start so soon. Draco had assumed they’d wait until the second day of classes, at the very least. And he certainly hadn’t expected to be cornered by angry fifth year Hufflepuffs (whom he was pretty sure he’d tortured last year) on the train, only to remember that his mother’s wand didn’t work particularly well for him. If he’d had his old hawthorn wand, he’d have been out of this situation within a minute, but as it was, it was all he could do to keep up a Shield Charm under their continual assault.

“Oi!” yelled a voice from the corridor. The Hufflepuffs turned, and between them Draco saw the Weasel, standing with his wand raised.

“What are you playing at, attacking another student? Haven’t we had enough of that in the past few years?” Then he caught sight of Draco, and his face shifted. “Oh, it’s him. All right then, carry on.”

“Ron!” cried Granger’s bossy voice. “Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean you can let students attack him! You’re a Prefect! Merlin.” She turned to face the Hufflepuffs. “Detention for all of you, and believe me, next time I catch you attacking a fellow student it’ll be worse.”

“But he fought on You-Know-Who’s side during the war,” a girl whined. “He tortured students.”

Granger faced the girl grimly. “Lots of us did things we shouldn’t have during the war, myself included. But the war’s over. Now scram!”

They did, many of them throwing glares at Draco over their shoulders. Granger nodded stiffly to Draco, then left. As she walked away through the corridor, he heard the Weasel say, “You know, I think I’m rubbing off on you. Since when do you say things like ‘scram?’”

“Oh, be quiet Ronald,” she said, in pleased tone.

Draco cast silencing and locking charms on his compartment, took out a book, and ignored the people staring at him as they walked past.

It was his last year at Hogwarts, the war was over, and if he could just make it through the next eight months he could move on with his life.

If only the bloody Hufflepuffs would stop smirking at him as they walked past his compartment.

When the train reached its destination, Draco disembarked as he always did, and tried to pretend that everything would be the same as it was before. Within a few hours, the illusion was permanently shattered.

Nothing was the same, and Draco had a hard time pretending that it was. For a start, he wasn’t in the same dorm anymore. The dorm Draco had spent the last seven years of his life in had cycled back around to the first years, and the eighth year Slytherins were placed in a room that had been added just for the year, and was only staying around because of powerful magic.

The absences were noticeable everywhere. Millie and Vincent were gone forever, and Theo had decided to finish school at Beauxbatons, where he could study without people blaming him for who his parents were. And there were others, younger students whom Draco wished he’d thought to find out the names of. Now it was too late for many of them.

At the start of term feast, Professor McGonagall gave a long speech about the students who had been lost to war, the importance of house unity, and some changes in the following year. Included was a measure to raise awareness about Muggle culture: every class had to include a unit about how the subject was thought of or used historically by Muggles. At the end of the speech, she made a toast to Harry Potter, and again spoke of the urgency of the school banding together, and protecting the students who had fought to save the Wizarding world.

She looked pointedly at the Slytherin table when she said that, and made no suggestion that the children of Death Eaters might need protecting, too.

“The war is over, and we all need some help moving on with our lives,” she said, sweeping her audience with a majestic gaze. “It’s important that we continue to remind ourselves and each other, both by words and actions: the war is over.”

* * * * *

_The war was over, but not for him._

Some nights, when everything became too much, Draco would climb to the top of the Astronomy tower and try to remember what had led him to make the choices he had. It had all seemed so clean-cut and understandable, until the night that he stood here with his wand up, and couldn’t cast the curse that would save him. Couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except stand there and wait for something to happen.

He hadn’t been able to make anything go the way he wanted it to.

Vince was dead.

Sometimes Draco wished he was dead, too.

Every once in a while, when he was up here, he thought about just jumping, leaving it all behind. Flying for a moment, without a broom or magic, and then he would be gone. But he couldn’t bring himself to see it through.

Just one more thing he wasn’t good enough to do.

* * * * *

Several days after the start of school, Potter returned his wand to him. “Sorry I kept it so long,” he said, with a slightly uncomfortable shrug. “I forgot it was yours, actually, Hermione was the one who…”

“Save it, Potter,” Draco said, taking the wand. “I don’t need to hear your excuses.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Draco started to walk away, secretly glad that he had his wand back. Not glad enough to thank Potter, obviously (why should he have to thank him for returning stolen property?), but glad nonetheless.

Then Potter went and wrecked it. “Malfoy, wait.”

Draco turned around, having only made it a few steps away. “What is it, Potter?”

“Just—if you need anything, let me know, okay? I know it can’t be easy being back here, with all of the memories and everything.”

Draco noticed absently that Potter needed to get his hair trimmed; he kept pushing it out of his eyes as he spoke. “I’m touched,” he said drily. “But somehow I doubt that you could be of much help to me.”

This time he made it almost across the hall before Potter called his name; far enough that he could pretend he hadn’t heard him. He hid near the classroom until the minute class started, so that Potter wouldn’t have time to finish what he had to say. Draco sat down in Defence right as the class began.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was the worst class by far; Charlie Weasley was teaching it this year. Draco had considered dropping it from his schedule, but after consulting his mother they agreed that he probably needed to take it if he had any hope of getting a job. Taking a class dedicated to eradicating evil might help to clear his slate of some of the other things he’d done. If not that, then at least the reverse was true: nobody would consider his repentance genuine if the first thing he did after being given only a (not insignificant) fine for his actions was to drop Defence. People would almost certainly talk about how Draco Malfoy cared more about the Dark Arts than defending himself from them. Now that he’d sat through a few classes with this man as his professor, Draco almost didn’t care.

Bloody Weasleys.

Weasley wasn’t the only new teacher. Professor Slughorn had left Hogwarts to go back into retirement. Potions was now being taught by a small, waspy man named Professor Newton. He was nice enough, but one hour in his class and Draco was confident that he knew more about the art of potioneering than this man ever would. If he could sit for the NEWT without taking the class, Draco wouldn’t be bothering to sit through it. Newton was also the new head of Slytherin, but that didn’t bother him much; if Snape couldn’t be head of house, Draco didn’t care who was, and this man was a good deal less slimy than Slughorn.

The new Transfiguration professor was, annoyingly enough, another Weasley. Draco didn’t know this one’s first name, but he knew that at one point he’d worked for the Ministry. He pretended not to know Charlie’s name either, and referred to them as Dragonbreath and The Prat, although not to their faces, of course.

It was during Defence that Draco realized that the wand was behaving strangely.

He’d never learned to do a proper Patronus Charm, so practicing with the class was a humiliating affair, made worse by the fact that Potter’s fan club was making corporeal Patronuses by their first, second, and third tries. Draco was still struggling to make anything happen, struggling to even create a wisp of fog.

Dragonbreath walked purposefully over to him. “You’re clearly not thinking of a happy enough thought.” His tone was curt, and it was clear that he was only helping Draco because his job required it. This attitude made Draco’s blood boil, and he responded without thinking, without remembering that this was a professor he was talking to.

“I’m having trouble picking one. See, I can’t decide whether I want to use the time your father got in trouble with the Ministry for commenting to the paper without leave or the time your twin brothers got a lifelong ban from Quidditch for attacking me,” he said, flashing his patented Malfoy sneer.

Dragonbreath looked as though he’d been punched. “Detention with Filch at 7:00 tonight, Malfoy,” he said, staring at him with a steely gaze. “And if you continue to talk about my family in that way, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

All that Draco regretted was that he hadn’t taken the time to word his insult with the elegance he usually preferred. He turned back to the point on the wall he was trying to pretend was a Dementor and said, without really expecting anything, “ _Expecto Patronum!”_

In a flash, a peacock burst out of the end of his wand, and he almost laughed with joy, thinking about the time he’d found out he was a wizard and been taken away from his abusive aunt and uncle, and how happy—

That wasn’t his happy memory.

Whose memory was that?

His eyes darted to Potter, who was walking around as though he were in charge, correcting people’s postures and making suggestions. He seemed to be doing more of the teaching than Dragonbreath, quite frankly.

Potter had had his wand for a long time. Was it somehow his memory?

Draco brushed the thought aside. Something strange had happened, and it probably had to do with his wand being gone so long, but no way did that memory belong to Potter. There was never a time when Potter was abused, never a time when he wasn’t spoiled and pampered within an inch of his life. He remembered that day during first year, on the train, when he’d extended his hand in friendship to the boy and Potter had just sneered and implied that Draco wasn’t good enough to be friends with him. No, whoever the memory belonged to, it certainly wasn’t Potter.

He was still trying to figure it all out on his way out of class, too distracted to notice the Weasel standing right in front of him, tapping his wand against his hand menacingly. There were few enough eighth years that all of their classes were held together, so the Weasel had heard everything he’d said to his older brother.         

“Oi!” he said when Draco attempted to pass him. “You think I’m gonna let you through after your crack about my brother?”

“Which one?” Draco asked coldly. “And if you’re planning to attack me, you’d better do it quickly. People are trying to walk in this hallway, you know, and you’re in the way.”

“What do you mean, which one!” Weasley yelled, his voice cracking. “Fred, my brother Fred, why’d you have to pick him to make a joke about? Why couldn’t it have been Percy, or Bill?”

Draco was about to ask why in the name of Merlin it mattered which brother he had made fun of, but the Weasel had evidently decided they were done talking. Before Draco could even open his mouth, he cast a Jelly-Legs jinx, followed quickly by a non-verbal spell that had Draco hanging upside down by his legs.

“How dare you,” Weasley growled, the expression on his face almost animalistic. “How dare you talk about Fred that way?”

A crowd was beginning to form, and Draco was so humiliated that he almost couldn’t stand it. His lifted his wand, thinking he was going to prove to the Weasel that Malfoys could attack even when being suspended upside down, and once again his wand did magic he wasn’t prepared for, dropping him back to the ground. _What the hell was that?_ he thought. Unbidden, the spell he’d just done appeared in his mind: _Liberacorpus._

A spell he’d never in his life heard of, let alone used.

The Weasel’s face contorted with rage, but then his bushy-haired girlfriend appeared at his side. “Ronald!” she scolded. “Leave him alone.”

“He started it!”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron, just because he started something doesn’t mean you have to attack him in the middle of the corridor.” She took his arm and pulled him firmly away from the crowd, scolding him further as she did so.

Just to prove that he didn’t need to be rescued, he called after them, “Hey, Weasel, it’s a good thing your Mudblood girlfriend was here to save you.”

“Ignore him,” Granger said soothingly, stroking the Weasel’s arm softly.

“He called you a Mudblood!”

“Ignore him. He’s harmless.”

He _was_ harmless, and that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it? Draco picked up the items he’d dropped during his unseemly time being held upside down and put them away, then walked through the hall purposefully, eyes ahead, looking at and seeing no one.

He was almost to the library when Potter appeared from an adjacent corridor.

“What are you doing here?” Draco demanded, with his best Malfoy sneer. “And don’t say you’re here to study, because in all my time at Hogwarts I have never once seen you come to the library. Or study at all, actually.” This wasn’t strictly true (he remembered vividly several times in fourth year when Potter had been bent over books, flipping through pages as though his life depended on it,) but it was true enough that he figured he could get away with saying it.

“I followed you.”

Draco groaned. “Haven’t I seen enough of you for one day?” He leaned against the wall and sighed. “Very well, get it over with.” He would have thrown in an insult, but so far today his name calling hadn’t gotten him anywhere, and he didn’t want to push his luck. The school was already out for his blood; they’d be even worse if he attacked their precious Golden Boy.

“I wanted to explain Ron’s behavior.” Potter leaned against the opposite wall, imitating

Draco’s posture. “He was—well, he was a right prat earlier, but then, so were you.”

“Get on with it, Scarhead.” Come to think of it, a little bit of name-calling wasn’t a bad idea at all.

“Fred died. In the battle last year.” Potter seemed to think that was enough information, and from the look on his face, he thought it explained everything.

“Fred, who in the name of Merlin is…oh.” Draco blinked a few times, as though there were something in his eye. “He was one of the twins, wasn’t he?”

Potter nodded meaningfully. “So you can see why Ron was a little touchy about hearing him insulted. Twisting the knife in the wound, so to speak.”

Draco took a deep breath, feeling suddenly as though he were about to cry. He had to maintain control. “A lot of people died in the war, Potter, and not all of them were on your side.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “You know, I don’t think I _will_ study in the library. Too many Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers for my liking.”

* * * * *

Greg didn’t follow him around anymore, and Draco didn’t try to force it. Having Greg around only reminded him what had happened to Vince, and all the ways that it was his fault that things had happened the way they had. That night, though, when he heard Greg crying himself to sleep at night, he wished that he could go across the room and comfort him.

He didn’t. He just cast a Silencing Charm on Greg’s curtains so that he could cry in peace, and fell into his own nightmares. When he woke up, he was curled in a ball and hugging his knees to his chest. He didn’t realize he was crying until he reached up his hand and felt his face, which was wet. At first, he thought it was blood; it would have made sense with the dream he was having, and he wasn’t really thinking straight. When he realized the truth, he did a Tempus Charm to make sure it was too early for anyone else to be awake, and left the room. Like hell was he going to let anyone see him cry.

Draco had never been able to comfortably cry in front of people. It made him feel weak, like everyone around him was judging him. Malfoys didn’t show emotion, because it was too easy for people to use it against them. That was why, when Potter had found him crying in that bathroom sixth year (which felt much longer than a year and a half ago,) his first thought had been to attack. To run. To deny. But attacking was the easiest and first thought in his mind, and it fit well into the pattern between him and Potter: fight first and ask questions later.

He made it to the top of the Astronomy Tower, panting and out of breath, before letting himself cry in earnest. He curled up on the ground, clutching his knees again, and had just enough wits about him to cast a Silencing Charm. After that, he didn’t hold back. Draco had always had a knack for repressing emotions, but when he let go, they burst out in full force. When he cried, it was like this, loud and ugly and painful, and most of all, unseemly, which was why he didn’t let himself cry in front of others. Worst of all, he’d never mastered the art of breathing and crying at the same time, resulting in huge hiccupping gasps between tears that reminded him that he was showing emotion (and Malfoys weren’t supposed to show emotion, weren’t supposed to have emotion, so fucking tired of emotion,) that he had let go of the mask he had so carefully designed.

Being up here made things worse, not better, but he didn’t climb back down and find a better place. He didn’t deserve a better place to cry. He deserved _this,_ needed this reminder that if he had been better, worked harder, hell, moved a little bit faster, everything might have turned out differently. He could have accepted Dumbledore’s help and been safe. He could have killed Dumbledore right away when he was supposed to. He could have done anything but what he’d done, anything but _fucking hesitate,_ and things would have been very different. There were a thousand paths and ways that he could be less broken and hurt, but he’d chosen the worst one, and now he was sitting here crying about it like a little kid instead of dealing with his actions and moving on.

When he got back to the common room, Pansy was sitting in front of the fire, poking it with a stick and scowling. She looked up when she saw him enter.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Out.”

“You look awful.”

“So do you.”

She nodded. Pansy hadn’t tried to kiss him since before the Battle of Hogwarts, and the absence of her as a force in his life was still unnerving. Draco sat on a chair far away from her, and tried to pretend the question wasn’t burning in his mind, but it was still there. Finally, he looked at her and asked quietly, “What changed? Between us, I mean.”

She looked back in the fire, avoiding his eyes. “Would you have wanted it all to stay the same?”

“Of course I would. We were happy.”

Pansy snorted. “Like hell we were. We were all lining up to die for our parents’ dreams, Draco. That’s hardly what I’d call normal teenage behavior. Don’t you know that most seventeen year olds are doing everything they can to distance themselves from their parents?”

“Just because it wasn’t—typical, of people our age, doesn’t mean we weren’t happy.” His voice was hoarse from sobbing, but he knew that if he didn’t mention it, Pansy wouldn’t either. “So what changed?”

“You did, Draco,” she said, pulling invisible threads from her nightgown. “And I did too. I don’t want to be who I was anymore.” She looked up to the ceiling and yelled, suddenly, “You hear that, Mom! I don’t want to be me anymore! I don’t want to keep fighting and watching my friends die because of your stupid choices! STOP TRYING TO FUCKING CONTACT ME, BECAUSE I’M NOT COMING HOME! So stop it. I’m not you, mother!” Tears slipped down her eyes, but she just brushed them away; Pansy had never had trouble crying in front of people.

Draco crossed the room as quickly as he could and took her in his arms, as he had many times last year when she’d been too tired to go on. She was all sharp, awkward angles, and hugging her made him feel as though he had to be careful, or he might get cut. “It’s okay, Pansy. But you have to stop yelling, or Newton will be in here asking what’s wrong.”

She pushed him away, retreating even farther into her corner of the couch. “I don’t want you anymore, Draco,” she said, tears still falling silently from her eyes. “Do you understand? I don’t need you. I can take care of myself.”

Draco got up off the couch. “Just put a Silencing Charm on the room if you want to keep yelling. Some of us want to get some sleep.”

Pansy sniffed, and pulled herself upright. “As if. As if any of us could sleep after all that’s happened. Don’t lie, Draco. Even if I wasn’t yelling, you wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

“You don’t know me, Parkinson,” he said coldly. “I’ve been sleeping fine. But I suppose you have more that you regret doing than I do.”

“You’ve been crying,” she said when he was halfway across the room. Draco didn’t have a good response to that, so he just pretended not to hear her and kept walking.

When he got back to his dormitory, Draco pulled the curtains around his bed and cried again, this time as quietly as he could.

When would everything stop being broken and painful and go back to normal?

* * * * *

Draco’s days fell into a pattern. Wake up, or, more likely, never have even fallen asleep, drink as much coffee as he could in the Great Hall (he found out that the cups would turn any coffee after the first three he had into decaf, so sometimes when he was feeling really shitty he’d get someone to give him their cup so he could get more caffeine) make jokes about people he didn’t like, wish that he could talk to Greg, go to class, wish that Pansy would go back to being silly and frivolous and fun, study, forget to eat, remember to eat but only have a few minutes to spare, then go to bed and hope that tonight he might get more than a few hours of sleep.

After a few weeks of this, Potter passed him a note during a lecture in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Draco was positive that Dragonbreath had seen him, and equally positive that as long as it was Potter who was passing the notes, it wouldn’t matter one bit who saw it.

_Malfoy, are you all right? You look ill. You should go to the Hospital Wing._

He crumpled it up, not willing to even dignify that statement with a response. Potter tried again.

_You seem tired. I can take notes for you, if you want to sleep._

Once again, Draco crumpled it up.

 

_I’m not going to stop writing you notes until you answer._  
 **_I’m trying to pay attention, Potter. Unlike some people, I can’t count on passing a class based purely on the professor being my friend’s brother._ **

He waited until Dragonbreath wasn’t looking to pass the note. While the professor might have been willing to ignore note-passing when it was Potter doing it, Draco couldn’t be sure the same would apply for him.

_You’re sure you don’t want me to take notes for you?_  
 **_Oh, and of course nobody would notice I was sleeping. Use your head, you prat._ **  
_What about a Skiving Snackbox, then? I think I have a few Nosebleed Nougats in my bag._  
 **_Potter, you are truly daft. Do you really think Weasley won’t notice that I’m using a product that his brothers invented?_ **  
_You might not even need one. You really do seem ill._  
 **_I’m touched. For a moment there, it seemed like you almost cared about the poor Death Eater._ **  
_Death Eater’s son, you mean._  
 **_Death Eater._ **  
_You didn’t have a choice. Anyways, you’re avoiding the question. Are you all right?_  
 **_I’m fine. Now sod off._ **  
_Very convincing._  
 **_Sorry if I don’t live my life thinking of ways to get you to believe me, Potter._ **  
_I’ve seen how much coffee you drink, Malfoy. You’re clearly not sleeping._  
 ** _And_ you’re _clearly far too interested in my food habits._**

As Potter was writing a response, Dragonbreath cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I’m going to have to ask you to stop passing. I’m sure you already know all about sending messages through Patronuses, but I can’t make exceptions to the rules.”

“I understand, Professor,” Potter said, sounding far too comfortable for someone who’d just been reprimanded. Draco wondered, not for the first time, how well Potter and Dragonbreath knew each other.

As soon as they left the classroom, Potter cornered him and began to talk. “You really don’t look too good.”

Draco put on the best sneer he could under the circumstances. “I didn’t know you paid so much attention to how I looked.”

“I just want to help you.”

“I don’t need your bloody help.”

“I know you don’t _need_ it. I want you to have it.”

Draco sneered. “You make it sound like you’re offering me some priceless gem. However can I repay you? Would you like me to get down on my knees and kiss your feet?”

Potter just looked at him, and he knew that this sort of situation called for desperate measures.

“Why don’t you go help your Mudblood girlfriend? She’s looking pretty awful herself. Pity that those scars will never go away, isn’t it? My aunt Bellatrix charmed that knife herself, did you know? Wanted something that would make the humiliation permanent—not that permanent was ever very long for anyone who went up against her.”

Harry glowered. “Except for Molly Weasley, of course, who killed her with the oh-so-sophisticated Stunning Spell. You know what, Malfoy? You don’t want my help? Fine. I won’t help you. Figure your own life out from now on. Oh, and I’ll stop telling the DA not to attack you. You do know that that’s been the only thing keeping them away, right? But if you don’t want my help, you don’t have to have it.”

Potter stormed away, leaving Draco feeling surprisingly hollow.

* * * * *

Harry stepped into the portrait hole. “Arse.”

Ron and Hermione looked up at him. It was Ron that responded first. “You know, mate, I’m not exactly sure what you were expecting to accomplish here. We’ve always known Malfoy was a prat.”

Hermione looked between them, seemed to decide that they could handle this on their own, and went back to her book.

Harry sat down next to Ron on the couch. “Yeah, but something’s going on with him. You’ve seen how pale he is.”

“How pale who is?” Ginny asked, coming from across the room to join them.

“Malfoy,” Ron said, seemingly torn between annoyance and amusement. “Harry’s convinced he needs saving of some kind.”

Ginny sat cross-legged on the ground, facing them. Turning back to the chair she’d been on, she quickly summoned a large cushion to place at her back. “Malfoy? Why?”

Hermione sighed, and looked up from her book once more. She even went so far as to close it, although she kept a finger on her page to mark it. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Ginny and Ron both turned to look at her. “Um, no?” Ron offered.

“Yes, it is! This is just an extension of his saving-people thing, combined with his Malfoy obsession.”

“Excuse me, I’m sitting right here!”

“Come on, Harry, you know I’m right. When, in our entire time at school, have you not been obsessed with Malfoy?” Turning back to Ginny, she started ticking them off on her finger.

“There was Malfoy-is-the-Heir-of-Slytherin, Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater, Malfoy-is-up-to-something-but-I-don’t-know-what-yet; there was bound to be Malfoy-needs-me-to-save-him-for-some-reason eventually.”

“Hey, I was right about most of those things!”

“Which has only reinforced the idea that you know exactly what’s going on with Malfoy and what he needs. And I wouldn’t say most; you were completely wrong about him being the Heir of Slytherin. Anyway, I think my point stands: this is just an extension of your saving people thing.”

Ginny nodded slowly.  “That does make sense.”

Ron looked relieved. “Yeah. You had me scared for a little while there. Though maybe you were in love with the prat.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, right. Of all the people I could fall for, he'd be the last on my list.”

“Not to mention that he’s a bloke.” Ron didn’t speak for a few moments, then said, “Do you really think you’re going to accomplish anything, though? I mean, I respect what you’re trying to do and everything, but—I’m not sure you can redeem him.”

Hermione nodded. “I agree. I’m not saying don’t try, but don’t be crushed if it turns out he’s beyond saving. I get the sense from him that he’s not going to do anything he doesn’t want to.”

“I know.”

Ginny bit her lip, then said, “Just don’t let him change _you,_ okay? It’s fine for you to try to help him, but I don’t trust him one bit. He still calls Hermione a Mudblood.”

Harry thought about pointing out that the way Malfoy said Mudblood was different than it had been before. It sounded much less cruel, and much more like it was being said out of habit.

Then he thought of Malfoy’s cruel joke about Bellatrix torturing Hermione. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Some people are beyond saving, and Malfoy might be one of them.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating a day early because tomorrow's Easter and I might not get the chance. I'm feeling pretty optimistic about weekly updates. Expect new chapters each Sunday unless I say otherwise.

The next time Draco’s wand misbehaved, he was surprised to realize that he’d forgotten about it. Nothing had gone wrong since that first day, and he’d chalked it up as a fluke, until something else happened.

There was nothing significant about how the day began. He drank his three cups of coffee and managed to resist the urge to have more. (If he asked for someone else’s mug too often, they’d know he wasn’t sleeping, and Malfoys didn’t show signs of weakness.) He’d gotten to breakfast late, having managed to doze off a bit at exactly the wrong time, so he only ate a few bites of food before putting an apple in his bag and heading to Double Potions.

If Draco had been hurrying less, he might have managed to avoid the Trip Jinx that someone sent his way. As it was, he was hurtled to the ground, bag ripping in the process. All of his supplies spilled, and he scraped the skin off the palm of his hand.

Draco got back to his feet, swearing. It had only been a few days since his confrontation with Potter, but it seemed he’d been true to his word: in those few days, Draco had become the victim of all manner of minor hexes throughout his day, most seeming to come from members of the DA. Not that he’d admit it to Potter, but it was fairly obnoxious, and he was starting to miss being ignored.

He managed to clean up his possessions and repair his bag fairly quickly, but now he would have to run to avoid being late. He sprinted down the hallways when he didn’t see anyone, but whenever another latecomer approached, he slowed his pace to a walk so as not to be seen doing anything so undignified as running. Once he made it to the classroom, he regretted this choice (although he regretted being hexed even more) because, all though he was on time, there was only one seat left. The Golden Trio were sitting at a square table with only the seat next to Potter still empty, and wasn’t life grand?

He slid into the seat and took out his textbook, determined not to look at any of his seatmates for the entire class period. A plan which was soon thwarted when Newton announced that they would be working in pairs today.

“Now, I know I don’t do this often,” he said, peering at them from his desk as though his students were some sort of anomaly that he was trying to explain to himself. “But this potion is exceedingly complicated, and the best Potions Masters work in tandem. No, don’t give me those faces, you know I’m right. You’ll be attempting Blood-Replenishing Potions today, and I don’t expect any of you will get it right on the first try. It should be on page 164 of your potions book. Come to me with questions.”

_As though you could answer any questions I would have._

Draco sighed loudly, trying to make it clear how unhappy he was with this situation. “Well, Potter, shall we?”

Granger and the Weasel shared a look. Then, surprisingly, Granger spoke. “I can partner with him, Harry, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, he bloody well is!” Draco said defiantly. The last thing he needed to hear was an argument between self-sacrificing Gryffindors over who would be noble enough to partner with the Death Eater, who they really felt _so bad for._

Granger continued to look at Potter questioningly until he nodded. Then he stood. “Come on, Malfoy. Let’s go get the supplies.”

Draco was about to question why they both needed to be there to get supplies, but Potter gave him a look, so he got up. “Afraid you’ll accidentally poison yourself by getting the wrong things unless I help you? Figures. Famous Potter can’t even tell the difference between potions ingredients.”

Potter didn’t even dignify that with a response, just grabbed his potions book and started towards the supply cabinet. Nobody else was there yet; most people made lists of what they would need before bothering to get up. Draco started grabbing items without even looking at the book (he bloody well knew what went into a Blood-Replenishing Potion), but then realized that since he and Potter hadn’t coordinated what they were getting, they might end up with unnecessary duplicates. He leaned over to look at what was in Potter’s hands.

“You idiot! There’s no nettles in Blood-Replenishing Potions, not unless you’re trying to kill someone. Surely even _you_ know that their poison is only counteracted when used with eye of newt.”

“I know,” Potter said, sounding infuriatingly calm. “They’re not for that.”

Draco stalked towards Potter and picked up things out of his hands, reading the labels. Then he stepped back. “Why, may I ask do you have all of the ingredients for Dreamless Sleep Potion?”

“Because I know you need it but you have some sort of ego trip that stops you from asking Madame Pomfrey. I also know that Newton doesn’t trust you and checks your bag after every lesson. Now, let me put this in my bag before anyone else comes in here and catches me, alright?”

Draco watched in silence as Potter shoved the ingredients in his bag, almost crushing the nettles.

“What?” he asked, looked up to see Draco still staring at him.

“Why are you trying to help me?”

Potter sighed. “It’s nothing personal. I just hate to see someone in so much pain.” When Draco looked skeptical, he said, “Don’t worry, I still hate you. Hermione thinks that I just got used to saving people.”

“Fine. You want to steal me ingredients, I won’t argue.” Draco tried not to admit, even to himself, how badly he needed the help. Maybe now he’d be able to get through a whole night without waking up. But he wouldn’t thank Potter, because if he did, Potter would have an advantage. “We still need some Porcupine Spines. Can you reach that container?”

They left the storeroom just as others were beginning to enter. Draco set the fire under the cauldron and began to work. He gave Potter instructions, not trusting him to be able to do anything on his own. Who cared if he’d beaten Draco for most of sixth year? He had five years of evidence before that, not to mention the past few weeks, that supported the theory that it had been a fluke or that Potter had cheated.

Granger and the Weasel, he noted with satisfaction, were having a good deal of trouble. Grange was studious by nature, but the Weasel kept distracting her with ridiculous questions, often at pivotal moments of the potion. She also seemed to have the idea that she had to make sure the Weasel understood every step of the process, which slowed her down immensely.

Potter seemed to be noticing the same thing; at one point he met Draco’s eyes and quirked his head at their seatmates. For the most part, he and Draco didn’t talk or make eye contact, just worked steadily until the potion was complete. When Newton made his rounds around the room, he gave them a few pointers, but was forced to admit that they’d brewed the best potion in the class.

“Twenty points to Gryffindor. And Slytherin,” he added as an afterthought. Any other teacher would have given more, but Newton didn’t like to give or remove points at all, seeming to think the system silly and childish.

“I did most of the work,” Draco interjected quickly.

“I’m sure Mr. Potter did his share, and if you continue to complain, the points will be only for Gryffindor.”

Draco wanted to respond, but bit his tongue. Slytherin had the least points right now, and while he didn’t care particularly, he wanted the younger students to have the excitement of the tournament. Besides, being upset about things as trivial as house points made everything seem more normal. Not that there was any chance Slytherin would win this year; too many teachers had grudges they hadn’t let go of from the war, and nobody seemed to be thinking about the younger students at all.

At the end of class, Draco found a note in his book. _Meet me in the abandoned classroom on the first floor for the ingredients._

He nodded slightly to Potter to show that he’d gotten the message, then did a quick _Incendio_ on it so there would be no evidence. He’d picked an ideal moment to do it, too; Granger, having realized that there were only ten minutes left of the lesson, was berating the Weasel for doing so little, and therefore paying no attention whatsoever to what Draco was doing.

After the lesson, he went quietly to Newton to have his bag checked. The first few times he’d made a fuss about it, but that only made more people realize the humiliations he was being forced to endure. Once he’d been checked by the professor, he made his way to the first floor.

Potter was waiting in the classroom, leaning cockily against the professor’s desk with his arms folded across his chest. “I thought that maybe before I gave you the ingredients we would have a chat.”

Draco sneered. “What could you and I possibly have to chat about?”

“You need to stop calling Hermione a Mudblood.”

“I thought this was an act of Gryffindor charity, not a bargain. I don’t have to take the ingredients from you at all. I’m not actually even sleeping that badly, I just thought that Greg could use some. He has nightmares sometimes, you know.” Come to think of it, sharing with Greg wasn’t that bad an idea. Maybe that would help smooth things out between them. “So if you’re trying to blackmail me into doing things, I can just leave now.”

Potter moved away from the desk and stepped towards him. He seemed taller than usual, somehow. “I’m really not asking for much, Malfoy. Don’t worry, it won’t ruin your reputation as a scumbag. No one’s likely to forget that. It’s just—do you even really enjoy it, anymore?”

“Yes.”

Potter ran a hand through his hair distractedly. “That’s not what I meant, I meant—it’s not doing you any good, to call her that, and it’s really painful for her to hear after everything that happened—look, the point is, I’m not giving you the ingredients unless you agree.”

Draco pretended to consider it for a minute, even though he knew he’d cave. He didn’t really feel the need to say Mudblood anymore, actually, but if he didn’t, everyone would wonder why. “Can I call her other things?”

“As long as they don’t relate to her blood status, I couldn’t care one bit what you call her,” Potter said. “You notice I don’t complain about you calling Ron the Weasel. So do we have a deal?” He held out his hand, and Draco was reminded ironically of first year, on the train.

“Deal,” he said, giving Potter’s hand one hard shake. “Now give me those ingredients.”

He skipped lunch to make the potion, since it needed to sit for at least three hours in stasis before the final step or it wouldn’t do anything. Probably he used his wand more than he should have (technically, it was always better to do things by hand), but he was in a hurry. That night he checked for all of the things that could have gone wrong, then took a dose. He wouldn’t give any to Greg until he was sure he had made it right, but his tests had shown that he hadn’t done anything wrong enough for it to kill him.

This was what made him remember that something was terribly wrong with his wand.

The potion should have stopped him from dreaming, but instead something else happened. He dreamed, but they weren’t _his_ dreams.

_He was walking through halls at the Ministry of Magic, going towards a door, and he knew this was the right door, he was shuddering with anticipation, and he opened it, and it led to his house, and no, no, he didn’t want to be there, he couldn’t let Dudley find him, so he threw himself sideways through another door, into the woods, and when would they find all of the Horcruxes so that they could stop bloody camping?_

_And then there was a snake, coming closer with fangs outstretched, mouth open wide, ready to bite…_

When he woke up breathing too hard but relieved he’d managed to sleep at all, he lay in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling and wondering what had just happened. Then he Vanished the non-functional potion and started a new one with his remaining supplies. Because it was Saturday, he had time to do it right, so he cut and mixed the ingredients by hand. The he went to the library to try to find out what in the name of Merlin a horcrux was, but all he could find were references to it being an evil form of magic.

That night he took the new potion with some apprehension, but this time, his sleep really was dreamless, which led him to the only conclusion that made sense: something was definitely wrong with his wand.

Draco spent most of Sunday doing his neglected homework, and the rest reasearching things that could go wrong with wands. He found nothing, and went to bed frustrated.

* * * * *

For her required Muggle unit, Professor Trelawney taught about Astrology. They spent a class period looking at the position of the planets at their time of birth. Draco found this to be immensely dull, and was only pretending to jot things down occasionally so it would seem as though he were doing work. He wasn’t sure why he was even going for an NEWT in Divination. His father had insisted that he take it when he was younger because of Trelawney’s prophecy regarding Potter (“If she makes another, a Malfoy should be present.”) but now his only reason to finish the class was that he had started it. Draco badly wanted to drop it, even though Malfoys weren’t quitters, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

He stopped taking “notes” for a moment to look out the window, and the minute he did Professor Trelawney swooped down on him and looked at his planetary chart. After a moment, she looked at him with wide eyes and spoke dramatically.

“Oh dear. That really is something. You’d best be careful, my dear boy.”

“What is it?” Draco asked, in a bored tone. Already today Trelawney had predicted several people’s deaths based off their moon signs.

She looked at him sharply. “My dear boy, your Venus is in Scorpio. This could mean trouble for you in the matter of love,” she said, her mystic tones slightly less prominent than they usually were. She was not in her element, teaching a subject that had such firm rules, none of which related to death, but she more than made up for it trying. “A person with Scorpio Venus only values intense, painful relationships. They’re easily jealous, and many fall in love once and never fall out of it. This could lead to lifelong unhappiness if you don’t proceed wisely.”

Draco yawned pointedly, and Professor Trelawney left, looking back at him in an annoyed manner. “Be wary my dear! One never knows what coudl be around the corner!” she called back before swooping down on Finnegan.

As annoying statements often do, Trelawney’s warnings stuck with Draco through the end of the day. That evening, he looked up Scorpio Venus purely so that he could stop thinking about it. Once he had read about it, maybe he could compartmentalize and shelve it in his mind so that he could ignore it.

_Venus is the planet of love, and as such, people with their Venus in Scorpio love intensely. They set their eye on the prize and don’t look back, but won’t accept anything less than their partner’s fullest level of love and adoration. Their partners don’t seem to mind, however; many with Venus in Scorpio find that they have an innate ability to make their partner want the same things they do, or that they only attract the sort of people who can handle their intense love._

It went on to explain further, but Draco didn’t read it. Firmly convinced now that it was ridiculous, he slammed the book shut, wondering why he’d bothered to look at this rubbish. He slid it back in his bag quickly, a little bit embarrassed that people might have seen what he was reading. _I never should have taken that fraud seriously. She can’t even teach real Divination properly, for Merlin’s sake._

* * * * *

“Greg?” Draco asked quietly, almost hoping he wouldn’t answer. He had just entered the dormitory to see his former friend lying on his bed reading, and had realized that this might be the best chance he got to make his offer.

“Yeah?” Greg didn’t look up from his textbook. He was biting his lip hard, and Draco realized that he’d probably interrupted him when he really needed to focus.

“Never mind.”

He looked up. “No, tell me.”

“I was just wondering if you wanted some Dreamless Sleep Potion.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “Where did you get it? Pomfrey’s not letting me have any. She thinks I’ll get to dependent on it.” He looked at Draco suspiciously, as though he thought he might be playing a rather cruel trick on him.

“I made it. Don’t worry, I’ve already used it a few times.. It won’t kill you.”

Greg thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, that’d be—great.”

“I’ll leave some by your bed later.”

The looked at each other awkwardly for a moment before Greg returned to his book. Draco cursed himself for not knowing how to bridge the gap that had come between them since the Battle of Hogwarts. He didn’t have anyone to talk to, and he wished he did. But he wasn’t lonely. Malfoys didn’t need anyone but themselves.

* * * * *

_Malfoy,_  
 _Meet me in that classroom after Potions._  
 _-Harry_

Draco burned the note, but sent Potter a quick owl letting him know that he would. After the lesson, he made it to the classroom first. For lack of anything better to do, he sat at one of the desks and started work on his Arithmancy paper. A few minutes in, the door opened and Potter entered the room.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

Draco looked up at him. “Why did you want me to meet you here?”

Potter looked a little sheepish. “I got you a few more ingredients. I was in detention, and it seemed easy to take them, so I did.”

“Your hero complex seems to have gotten the better of you once again. Wasn’t it just a few weeks ago that you were telling me that you hated me and weren’t going to help me anymore?”

An unreadable expression flashed across Potter’s face. “Well, if you don’t want them, I won’t give them to you. But you should probably take them; if I steal any more Newton will notice. I’m sure he doesn’t keep as close a count as Snape did, but one look at what’s missing and he’ll know it’s for Dreamless Sleep. Of course, that won’t narrow it down much, since everyone’s having nightmares from last year, but it’s still too risky.” Seeming to realize he was babbling, Potter closed him mouth abruptly.

Draco narrowed his eyes. He was feeling too many emotions, and it was making him nervous. Part of him thought he might cry, for no good reason at all. His stomach clenched, and he recognized one of the feelings as distrust. “Why are you trying to help me? What’s in it for you?”

“Not everyone has an ulterior motive for everything, Malfoy,” Potter said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a Slytherin. I’m helping you because you look like you need help, and that’s what I do.”

“Not good enough, Potter. Let me ask again. Why, in the name of Merlin, are _you_ trying to help _me?”_ He stood, and from the look on Potter’s face, Draco still had his innate talent for looking intimidating when he wanted to. That was one thing that hadn’t been changed by the war, at least.

“I don’t know, okay!” Potter yelled, hand twitching towards his pocket as though he were about to draw his wand. “I’ve been trying to figure it out since—I don’t even think you should have been allowed back into school, after that stunt you pulled sixth year—but you’re here, and you clearly aren’t sleeping, and I keep finding myself feeling _bad_ for you, even though you don’t deserve it, even though you’re probably the last person in this bloody school who deserves it! Your aunt almost killed my best friend, and I can’t even hate you for it, because I see you, see how you fall apart the minute you think no one’s looking.”

Draco stepped forward, glad now for the advantage his height gave him. He spoke in a low voice, almost a growl. “Listen, Scarhead, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I don’t need your pity, so you can bloody well shove off.”

Potter’s eyes were far too green to be allowed. If it weren’t for the way they reflected the light, Draco would have moved right away. Instead, he hesitated (as though that weren’t his whole life story in a nutshell,) long enough for Potter’s gaze to become questioning rather than angry, long enough for Draco to realize that their proximity to each other wasn’t necessarily appropriate, unless one or both of them was about to start throwing punches.

He could hear Potter’s breath, see his eyes widen as he clearly got the wrong idea about what was happening. That was enough to bring Draco to his senses, and he realized that there was only one thing to do in a situation like this one. He put his hand on the other boy’s shoulder, and slowly slid it down his arm, caressing softly. Potter’s eyes, if possible, got even bigger. Then Draco smirked, and slipped his hand into Potter’s bag, taking the promised ingredients.

“Thanks, Scarhead,” he said, shoving them in with his own supplies. “By the way, it’s good to know that there’s one way to get you to shut up.” He laughed, then left. From the expression on Potter’s face as Draco exited the room, he was still trying to work out what had just happened.

* * * * *

As Ginny was leaving the Great Hall with Hermione, she felt a tug on her arm. She turned to see Romilda Vane, wearing an expression that managed to seem giddy and scheming at the same time.

“Is it true that you are Harry are broken up for good?” she asked eagerly, clutching Ginny’s arm.

Ginny stiffened, and she decided that there was no good beating around the bush. “Yes, and he’s free to date anyone he wants, but if I hear you tried to slip him a Love Potion again…well, ask anyone who’s been the recipient of my Bat-Bogey Hex.”

Romilda rolled her eyes and bounced away, probably off to scheme about how she was going to get Harry to date her without being hexed. Hermione bit her lip anxiously.

“We should probably warn Harry the next time we see him. I can’t believe Love Potions are even legal—there’s things like that in the Muggle world, that people use to impair people’s judgment so they’re more likely to shag someone, and they’re beyond illegal. You’d think by now, the Ministry would have—I’m going to write George right now, he really shouldn’t be selling them at all.”

Ginny sighed and nodded. “Nobody should be forced into something like that against their will. If George doesn’t listen to you, I’ll talk to him myself.”

Hermione rifled through her bag for a quill, as though she really were going to write the letter at this very minute. “Maybe I should go into Magical Law after all, because it’s clear that whoever’s drafting legislation isn’t doing a good enough job.” She looked up, and something in her face softened. “I’m sorry people keep asking you about Harry. I know that can’t be pleasant.”

“It’s fine. Weird, though. I built most of my life around the idea of happily ever after, with Harry as my prince. It’s just a little unsettling to realize that I don’t even want that life anymore. I don’t want to constantly be overshadowed by who I’m in a relationship with, you know? I want to be my own person, and that wasn’t ever going to happen with him.”

Hermione nodded. “I always thought happily ever after was overrated. Now, I need to go, if I’m going to write this letter before class.”

* * * * *

Draco had managed to disguise a book on wandlore as his Charms book, so while everyone else plodded along with _Chapter Four: Healing the Broken,_ he read increasingly dull paragraphs about wands getting old and malfunctioning, which he already knew wasn’t his problem.

Granger came into Charms ten minutes late, looking immensely pleased with herself. Draco still hadn’t come up with something new to call her, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. He had a list in his dormitory that consisted of several well-worded descriptions of her appearance, as well as several jabs at how much she studied, but none of them seemed quite right. Nothing had the right sort of sting to it, and there was no point to an insult that didn’t hurt at least a little.

He turned back to his book, flipping through a few more pages just to make sure that it really was entirely useless. What he really needed was a wandmaker, but that was where it got complicated; Ollivander was the best alive, but there was the slight drawback that he’d spent several months locked in the dungeon at Malfoy Manor. Draco couldn’t very well drop by his shop, even if he could get permission to leave school, which he couldn’t, because McGonagall wasn’t going to let him leave without an escort, no matter what. He even had to take an escort to Hogsmeade; something about not being able to be trusted with that sort of responsibility after everything that had happened.

After class he went to the library to try yet another book. Greg was sitting at a table, bent over a spellbook and concentrating the same way he had been in the dorm. Draco realized that most of the time when he’d seen Greg this year, he’d had this same look on his face.

“Hey,” he said, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt. “All right if I sit by you?”

Greg grunted a response that Draco took to mean yes. He sat down and tried to read, but finally looked up at his former friend.

“You’ve been studying a lot this year.”

“What’s your point, Draco?” he asked stiffly. “That I’m too dumb to study?”

“No, I—I thought you were working hard, and I was just wondering if I could help with anything.”

Greg looked up, and Draco was surprised to see a flash of something sad in his eyes. “Your help is worse than no help right now. I probably won’t finish school this year, but I’ll stay until I get my NEWTs, and then I need to get a job. My family doesn’t have much money left. I can’t be as—asso—”

“Associated?” Draco offered.

“Yes. I can’t be—that, with someone like you. Everyone knows what you did in the war, but they all forgot about me. I have a chance, but—not if I’m friends with you.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg said, and it sounded honest.

“No, don’t be—I have to focus on schoolwork anyway.” Draco stood up and shoved his book in his bag, trying to act as though he weren’t seriously unnerved by this. “I should go.”

He walked back to his dorm to study before his next class, and he managed not to cry until much later.

* * * * *

He didn’t pay very good attention in Arithmancy that day. His thoughts were in turmoil, and most of them ran along the lines of how unfair things were. He’d always known that was true, but this was the first time he’d encountered it in this particular way. The war was supposed to be over, but it wasn’t. It burned Draco to think of how everyone went around saying that it was.

Draco tried to loosen the knot in his chest, but it hurt to think of a perfectly good friendship being ruined because people were going to see Greg how they wanted to see him. He didn’t really blame him for his choice to dissociate himself from Draco when it didn’t seem like there was a better option. Mostly, he was bitter that they lived in a society that would blame teenagers for a war that they never should have had to be a part of.

The first time he’d been forced to torture someone, Draco had thrown up afterwards. Even thinking about it almost sent him reeling into a flashback, but he didn’t let himself fall in. He couldn’t even remember things like that without feeling as though they were still happening, would always be happening.

He was doing a decent job of holding off the memory until someone hit him with a wad of paper. (Which was really an incredibly childish thing for an eighteen year old to be doing, but there you go.) His focused slipped, and then he was deep inside of himself.

_His Aunt Bella had a wand pointed at him, and was sneering. “If you don’t do it, you’re nothing to the Dark Lord. How can you be expected to kill that old coot if you can’t even use the Cruciatus on a disloyal servant?”_

_Draco raised his wand, shaking all over in spite of himself, and—_

“Mr. Malfoy, are you quite all right?” Professor Vector asked, wrenching him out of the memories.

Draco nodded shakily. Professor Vector was the only person who treated him the same as she always had, and he was more grateful for this than ever, now that she was looking at him with concern. Any other professor would be lecturing him about being disrespectful and not paying enough attention.

“You look ill. Perhaps you should see Madame Pomfrey.”

Draco was about to say no, but then he realized how dangerously close to crying he was. He felt a million miles away from himself, and cues he would normally have recognized escaped him. “Yeah, okay,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I could use a Headache Potion. I’m sure Blaise will fill me in on what I missed.”

Blaise nodded in agreement, although he didn’t quite meet Draco’s eyes. He’d stayed as neutral as it was possible to be in the war, so they had never been friends. Draco had always been “much too partisan” for his liking.

Draco didn’t go to the Hospital Wing, but returned to his dorm fully expecting to cry, even though Malfoys didn’t cry, and really, he’d cried far too much since the war. He didn’t. He just sat there, bitterly resenting a world that would probably never be able to look at his choices and understand. A world that Greg would be left out of not just because he wasn’t very bright, but because nobody would ever agree to let him in. A world in which Pansy no longer even wanted to see her parents because she’d been so hurt by them.

His chest tightened painfully, but he couldn’t stop his brain, couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how terribly fucked up it all was. This wasn’t Potter’s “fair and equal” world that he claimed existed now, or would soon once the wounds from the war had finally healed. Potter had neglected to think of the scars that wounds left, even when they were supposed to be gone. He’d forgotten that war didn’t end when the battles were over.

_Draco raised his wand, shaking all over in spite of himself, steeled himself, prepared himself, reminded himself not to feel—_

_And hesitated._

_“Do it,” Aunt Bella urged, a maniacal gleam in her eyes._

_“Give him time, Bella,” his mother said._

_“There isn’t time. Not if he’s going to serve the Dark Lord. You know that as well as I do, Cissy.” She turned back to Draco. “It’s now or never.”_

_He nodded, bit his lip, and turned back to his victim. Mentally apologizing to the slimy, rat-faced man at his feet, he lifted his wand and whispered, “Crucio.”_

_A surge of power came from the end of his wand, hitting its mark and causing the man to writhe and scream._

_“A good start, but it’s not enough,” Aunt Bella said._

_Draco tried again. And again. An hour later, his aunt was satisfied, and let him go. He’d barely made it out of her sight when he began to vomit, over and over until he was sure he’d turned inside out from the power of it._

_That night when he slept, Wormtail’s screams mingled with his own, until he couldn’t tell which one of them was the torturer and which was the victim._


	3. Chapter 3

Draco trudged towards Hogsmeade, trying at act as though Hagrid wasn’t following him. The only way he was allowed into the village was with an escort, and of course they’d assigned him the most conspicuous person possible. Draco was sure that it was out of spite. He wouldn’t have left the school at all, except that he needed more supplies for a few classes and wanted to get out. Tonight was the Halloween feast, which was going to be held in Potter’s honor because it was the night his parents were killed.

Technically, the feast was a memorial for those who died in the war, starting with the Potters and their contemporaries, but that didn’t explain the way all of the decorations seemed to revolve around Potter. It was after seeing a bloody _painting_ of the “Boy-Who-Lived” floated into the Great Hall that Draco decided that he had to get out of the castle, escort or not.

“Where’d yeh need ter go firs’?” Hagrid asked gruffly. “I wan’ ter be outta here before too long.”

“I need to stop at Scrivenshafts,” Draco said coldly. He needed to get new quills for note-taking; several of his were broken due to minor attacks from other students. He walked alongside the half-giant, annoyed that everybody who saw him knew that he needed an escort. McGonagall had claimed that it was for his good, too, but nobody would think that. Nobody worried about the possibility of a Death Eater being attacked.

After going into several stores for necessary supplies, Draco had everything he needed. “We can return to the school now,” he said haughtily. He wished they’d assigned him someone a little more dignified, because the thought of being seen with someone as rough and uncultured as the half-giant made him want to spend as little time as possible out where people could see them.

“Hold up. I’d like ter stop at the Three Broomsticks an’ get a drink before we go.”

Draco froze. “I’d rather not.”

“‘S too bad, ‘cos Professor McGonagall put me in charge of yeh, so we’ll go where I say.”

Draco refused to move. “I’ll go back to Hogwarts on my own, then. See how McGonagall likes it when she finds out that you let me leave unescorted.”

“Yeh’ll be the one that’s in trouble, skulkin’ around on yer own. C’mon now, I’m not waitin’ all day.”

There was nothing else for it. He had to tell the truth; it’d be far worse to try to go in and have a spectacle made of himself by getting kicked out. “I’m not allowed in there, okay?” Draco said quietly. “I’ve been banned from entering. So we can’t go there.”

Hagrid looked bemused. “Ah, righ’, yeh used that curse on Madame Rosmerta a few years back, didn’ yeh? All righ’, we’ll go to the Hogs Head. C’mon.”

Draco followed at as much of a distance as he thought he could get away with. He’d never been into the Hogs Head before. Once he’d gotten close, but it looked far too dingy and unappealing to go inside of. He was unsurprised to find it mostly empty, although it was dark enough that he couldn’t tell exactly how empty.

Hagrid led him up to the bar. “‘Lo, Aberforth,” he said cheerfully. “Me usual, please, an’ a butterbeer fer this’un.”

Draco looked up the the bartender and knew in an instant who he was. “You’re Dumbledore’s brother,” he said without thinking.

“Yes, I am,” the man said sharply. “And if I’m not mistaken, you’re the idiot that got him killed.”

Draco normally would have said something rude or hurtful, but the man’s sharp gaze made him want to be understood. “The _Dark Lord_ got Dumbledore killed. I was the idiot who couldn’t go through with it.”

Aberforth cocked his head for a moment, considering this, then nodded sagely. “It’s not a bad thing, not being able to go through with murder. Makes you better than most of your side, and a quite a bit of ours.” He reached under the table and pulled out a bottle, then filled a flagon with a brown, sticky looking liquid, although Draco couldn’t tell if that was how it was supposed to look or just how they made it here. All of this was done slowly, as though he had all the time in the world. “That’ll be seven sickles.”

“I’ve got it,” Draco said quickly, putting the money on the counter. Something made Draco want Aberforth to like him, and he knew part of it was because when the man looked at him, there was no fear in his eyes. So unlike most of the people he talked to, especially those that didn’t know him.

They moved to a table against the wall, and Draco got out a book, not feeling much like talking. It was hard to be sitting at this table, alone in the world except for one man that didn’t particularly like him. It made Draco think that maybe he should go out and make more friends. Pansy didn’t want him, and Vince was dead, and Greg couldn’t be associated with him, but they weren’t the only people in the world. Draco could still have friends. There was Blaise Zabini, and the Greengrass sisters, for a start. He could form a new group, build new alliances.

He had just started composing a list of possible friends in his head when a voice made him look up.

“Hagrid!” called Potter, hurrying towards them. He stopped short when he saw that Draco was also at the table.

“Harry! How are yeh? Where’s Ron an’ Hermione?”

Potter looked embarrassed. “They clearly wanted to be alone, so I—pretended I was meeting someone here so they’d be able to leave me without feeling guilty. Anyway, what are you two doing?”

“I’ve bin lookin’ after youn’ Malfoy here. Professor McGonagall asked fer one o’ the staff to come up ter Hogsmeade with him today.”

“Oh.” Potter thought for a minute. “Can I sit with the two of you? It’s just—I don’t have anywhere to go, and Ginny’s off with some friends from her year so I can’t find her—”

“‘Course yeh can,” Hagrid said, pulling out a chair for him.

Potter looked at Draco questioningly. After a moment, Draco sighed and nodded.

Potter sat down and Draco returned to his book, trying to ignore the conversation going on around him. At this rate, it would be a while before Hagrid was willing to go back to Hogwarts. He was so immersed in his book that he was surprised when a question was directed at him.

“What are you reading?” Potter asked.

“ _A History of Wandlore,_ not that it’s any of your business.”

“You’re studying wandlore? Why?”

For half a moment, Draco considered telling Potter the truth, but dismissed the idea quickly. It could have solved a few problems if Potter or the Woodchuck (his temporary name for Granger, even though she’d fixed the problem with her teeth) knew what was going on, but it would also involve working with them if they got into their heads that he needed help. Bloody Gryffindors. “I wasn’t aware I needed a reason to be interested in learning about the objects that allow us to channel our magic, Potter. Maybe I just care more about the future of our society than you.”

“I didn’t mean—I was just curious.” Potter shrugged awkwardly. “I don’t know very much about wandlore. Just what Ollivander told me when I was trying to figure out what the deal was with the Elder Wand.”

Draco blinked. “What _was_ the deal with the Elder Wand?” _Shit._ He’d meant to ignore Potter’s attempts at conversation, or at least be openly hostile. Now he was engaging in polite chit-chat. What was wrong with him?

“Well, Dumbledore had it, apparently, but then you took it from him, but Voldemort thought Snape had it, so he killed Snape, but I disarmed you, so I got it because—”

“Hold on, Potter. Slow down. What in the name of Merlin _is_ the Elder Wand? And what do you mean, I took it from Dumbledore? I dropped the wand I took from him on my way out. I still don’t know what happened to it.”

Potter blinked. “Oh, right. I forgot. I spent so long thinking about it that I forget not everyone else did. It’s the most powerful wand in the world, and Dumbledore had it. You disarmed him, which means it belonged to you even though it got buried with him—”

“Wait, disarming someone means their wand belongs to you? With that logic, everyone I know owns everyone else I know’s wand.”

Potter shrugged helplessly. “I don’t entirely get it either. But the Elder Wand was yours until I disarmed you last year.”

Draco frowned. “But it wasn’t the Elder Wand you took from me. It was this one,” he said, holding up the hawthorn wand.

“Yes, but the Elder Wand had sworn allegiance to you, and it saw that as a defeat.”

“Did it swear allegiance to me, or my wand? Because from that logic, it had nothing to do with me. Just whoever owned the wand that disarmed it.”

Now Potter was frowning. “You’re right, it really doesn’t make sense. But it worked. Remember when I disarmed Voldemort while he was in the middle of _Avada Kedavra?_ Well, he was using the Elder Wand, but it had already sworn allegiance to me, so it wouldn’t kill me.”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t think that actually makes sense. You got something wrong somewhere in that, but I don’t know what.” Then something Potter said caught up to him. “Where is it now? Do you have it?”

Potter shook his head firmly. “It’s hidden, and I’m not telling anyone where it is. People have died over it. If I die without it being taken, it’ll lose its power.”

“Why would you want it to? It’s the most powerful wand in the world, think of all that you could do with it—and if you’re right, all it will take is for someone to disarm you now for it to swear allegiance to them, whether or not they know where it is.”

“I don’t think so,” Potter said, but he’d gone a little bit pale. “I’ll have to ask Ollivander. Anyway, I should head back to school.”

Hagrid, who had been silent during that exchange, nodded. “We’d bes’ be headin’ back as well. I’m s’possed to help with the rest o’ the setup for the feast.”

Hagrid and Potter talked on the way back to school, but Draco remained silent. When they reached the gate, Potter turned to him suddenly. “You’ve been much less of a git than usual today.”

“Well, it’s my day off,” Draco sneered, trying to regain some of his pride. Had he really engaged in a friendly conversation with Potter? If he wasn’t careful, the next thing he knew he’d be asking Longbottom for Herbology advice. “I’ll go back to hating you and your friends by later tonight, maybe sooner if I have to see one more of those hideous decorations.”

Potter groaned and put his head in his hands. “I know, aren’t they awful? I tried to talk them out of the pictures of my face, but McGonagall gave me a stern lecture about people needing a reminder of the good in the world, especially while we’re honoring the dead.”

“Well, _some_ of the dead,” Draco said under his breath. He highly doubted that Vince or Aunt Bella would be honored at tonight’s feast.

Luckily, Potter didn’t hear him. “She said I was being selfish by not wanting my face plastered all over the place. Maybe she’s right. I just—it reminds me of the wanted posters. Undesirable Number 1.”

“I remember,” Draco said quietly. Then he realized that he was once again getting drawn into conversation. “I’m going back to Slytherin now, before my reputation is damaged by being seen talking to you.”

As he walked away, he heard Potter laugh. Probably because he knew that if anything, it would be his reputation that was damaged, not Draco’s.

And that laugh made him hate Potter just a little more, hate him for knowing how far Draco Malfoy had fallen.

Over the next several days, he worked extra hard to be mean to the “Golden Trio” to make up for his lapse on Saturday.

* * * * *

Draco’s magic continued to feel as though it belonged to someone else, so he kept reading, although he’d long since given up on finding his answers in a book.

Maybe he was on the wrong track entirely. His conversation with Potter had had one good outcome, which was that he knew a thing or two more about wandlore. Maybe he hadn’t properly earned the wand back, since it was just given to him. But his mother’s wand had worked for him.

There had to be a missing piece to what Potter knew. The disarming thing didn’t make any sense at all. With that in mind, he spent several hours reading about how wands could be won, although the information was very limited. What he found was that if his wand didn’t have allegiance to him, his magic wouldn’t work very well, and that wasn’t true; to the contrary, he was performing better magic than ever.

It was when he was working in the library that something hit him. The Elder Wand had sworn allegiance to Potter when he’d taken Draco’s wand, but now that he’d given it back…if the wand considered that a victory, that would mean—

Draco needed to start researching the Elder Wand, because unless he was wrong, there was a decent possibility that it belonged to him.

He didn’t make progress very quickly, but part of that was his method of studying. Something would go wrong with his wand, and he would spend the next 48 hours doing intense research before getting frustrated and deciding that it didn’t matter anyway. He’d go until the next issue without even looking at books, because he would manage to convince himself that he was just imagining things. Besides, the books he could find didn’t lead him anywhere.

If he were anyone else, he’d have gone to Ollivander. Instead, he tried to think of how to write a letter asking about this without Ollivander realizing it was his. He’d have to find a way to make his writing different, but if he did any magic, his magical signature could be traced. He wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking that Ollivander wouldn’t recognize it instantly; it was what the man did, after all.

He thought about this through Arithmancy, so that he almost didn’t notice when Vector assigned a project.

“You’ll need to work with another person on this, as it’s rather extensive. I’d suggest finding a partner before next class, or I’ll have to assign one to you, and I know everyone hates when I do that.” She smiled kindly. “No homework today; just find a partner. Class dismissed.”

_Fuck._ Draco looked around at his exiting classmates and wondered who the bloody hell would pair with him. There were only twelve people in the class, and of them, the only ones he knew were Daphne, Blaise, and Granger. (He’d had a lot going on in the past few years; there just wasn’t time to get to know everyone in school.)

He got up slowly and put his things in his bag. A shadow fell over his desk, and he looked up to see Granger hovering near him. Once she saw him looking, she moved forward with a sudden sense of purpose. “Would you like to be my partner? I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t seem to have anyone to pair up with, and I wouldn’t mind working with you.”

Draco sneered. “‘Wouldn’t mind?’ I’m touched. Thanks, but I can find a partner on my own.”

“All right,” she said, looking more amused than anything. “But if you can’t, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll work with Ernie.”

Merlin. Even Granger thought he was pathetic. Draco finished putting away his supplies and left the room, more determined than ever to get a partner.

That night after dinner, Draco saw his chance. The common room was empty except for him and Blaise, so he sat down on the chair across from Blaise and took a deep breath. “Do you want to be partners for the Arithmancy project?” he asked, trying not to sound too desperate.

Blaise didn’t even look up from his book. “I’m partnering with Daphne.”

“Blow her off. I’m better at Arithmancy than her.”

“Sorry, Draco. I made a promise to a friend.”

“Well, what about me? Aren’t I your friend?” Draco was fully aware that he sounded petulant, but he couldn’t help it. He had no one to work with, and he was so _tired_ of having no one to talk to. He scratched his fingernails across the leather of the chair, suddenly scared he wouldn’t be able to make Blaise change his mind.

“Quite frankly, no,” he said, turning another page.

“Well, why not?”

It was then that Blaise looked up. “You don’t get it, do you? Not everyone’s lives revolve around you. You tortured people, Draco, and before that you were a bully. Why in the name of Merlin would I want to be your friend?”

“You don’t—I didn’t want to hurt anyone. He was going to kill my family—you know what, fuck you. I’d like to see what you would have done in that situation.”

“Not what you did, that’s for sure,” Blaise said, frowning. “You had other choices and you know it.” He looked back down at his book.

Draco couldn’t let a comment like that go. “Such as what, exactly?” He asked icily. “Betraying my family?”

“Yes, that is one of them, actually. You knew what you were doing was wrong, or you would have had no problem killing Dumbledore.”

“How do you—”

“Everyone knows, Draco, or at least, everyone that was paying attention. You’d be surprised how much I’ve figured out. I don’t take part in a lot of the stuff that happens here, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Well, then what’s your point? Of course it was wrong, but it also made sense, and it fit in with everything I’d been taught, and he threatened to kill my parents, and _I’m so goddamn tired of having to justify myself to everyone!”_ Thank Merlin there was nobody else in the common room; Draco may have been letting his emotions get away with him, but at least nobody else was around to witness it.

Blaise looked at him evenly. “Has anyone besides me asked you to justify yourself?”

“I’ve seen how everyone looks at me—they don’t ask, but I know what they’re thinking. Everyone thinks they have the right to judge me, but no one fucking knows what I went through! I didn’t have a choice!” Draco felt to frantic too stay put, so he leapt to his feet and paced in front of the fire.

“I think we’ve established that you did in fact have a choice.” Blaise’s voice was infuriatingly calm, and Draco would have quite liked to punch him.

“To risk my life? To risk my parents’ lives? Why would I do that? I’m not a bloody Gryffindor, Blaise, I’m a Slytherin. I’ll always look after myself first, the people I love second, and everyone else can come in bloody third!”

“You’re not tied down to your house, Draco; it doesn’t define you. Stop acting like it wasn’t a choice. Being Slytherin didn’t force your hand.”

_“You don’t fucking get it, do you?_ Nobody fucking gets it. You don’t know what it was like—you have no idea—people I loved were dying. What I believed—whether or not I wanted all Mudbloods to be killed—it didn’t matter at all. I had to do what I could to survive, and if you want to call that a choice, call it a choice, but if you think you can judge me based off my decisions in the war, you can bloody well shove it.”

“The war wasn’t the only time you’ve been an idiot, Draco. You’ve been a bully since day one. The other Slytherins may have worshiped the ground you walked on, but it’s always been clear to me that the only thing you’ve ever been good at was hurting people. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a choice about that.”

Draco felt like crying. How could Blaise bring that up? Didn’t he know how hard it was for Draco to even think about how stupid and awful he’d been before? “People are allowed to make mistakes when they’re young.”

“You made people cry.”

“I was eleven! And yes, I was a bully, and yes, it was wrong, but you can’t spend your whole life blaming me for that. And you wouldn’t be trying to if you didn’t have your knickers in a twist about which side I was on in the war!”

“You’ve never thought about anyone but yourself.”

“That’s funny, because neither has Potter, but when it’s him doing it people say it’s because he’s ‘introspective, or ‘working through the horrors of his past.’ Well, he’s not the only one with ‘horrors in his past,’ and if everyone else could just realize that maybe I could have a moment’s peace!”

Draco stalked out of the common room. Maybe he never should have come back to Hogwarts. He was never going to be accepted anyway; why bother trying?

* * * * *

His conversation with Daphne was only marginally better. He cornered her after Transfiguration to ask her to ditch Blaise and join up with him.

She just stared at him. “I’m not going to do that, Draco. Blaise is my best friend, and I barely know you. Quite honestly, I’m not sure why you even asked. Are you really so arrogant that you think I’ll just drop everything to work with you?”

_Not arrogant, just desperate._ He put on his best Malfoy sneer. “I assumed that you’d jump at the chance at working with the best Arithmancer in the class.”

Daphne actually smirked. “I _did_ consider working with Granger, but Blaise asked me first.”

“What? Granger’s not—oh, fuck you, Daphne. It’s your loss.”

He started to walk away, but he’d only made it a few steps when he saw Granger standing against a wall, nose buried deeply in a book. “Oh, fuck it,” he muttered to himself, then approached her. “I’ll be your partner, all right?”

She looked up. “Oh, good. I wanted to work with someone who was good at the subject.”

This mollified Draco slightly, but he still said, “Don’t tell anyone about this, all right?”

“You mean that you came crawling back after declaring that you could find a partner on your own?” Hermione asked, smirking.

“Malfoys do not crawl,” he said loftily. “I merely decided that you have value as a scholar, and as such, your suggestion had some merit.

“All right, whatever you say,” she said with a wry smile. “I won’t tell.”

* * * * *

On the 14th of November, Draco was escorted to Azkaban to visit his father. There was nothing significant as to why that was the day he went, except that it was a Saturday and he didn’t have much homework. He shivered going past the Dementors; even with a Ministry official nearby, he didn’t like them. They’d always made him feel as though he wasn’t nearly as good as he thought he was, and that everything he’d thought about life was wrong. Today they weren’t as bad as usual. Draco couldn’t tell if it was because he was better at dealing with them or because all of the things they made him feel had already been in such strong force. Reliving your worst memory wasn’t that bad when you were still living it.

The Auror assigned to escort Draco led him through the building. He walked past many Death Eaters sitting quietly in their cells, many of them for the rest of their lives. His father’s sentence was only 30 years, mostly because he’d failed so miserably in the end. Most of the people Draco recognized didn’t seem to really be there anymore, but a few shouted insults at him as he walked past.

_Mother got off easy. 10 years of house arrest and a permanent ban from wand use is nothing compared to this._ Just another thing he owed Potter for, come to think of it. He’d testified at her trial, and explained that she had saved his life and ultimately ended the war.

“Here he is,” the Auror said, pointing. “The conditions of your visit don’t allow entrance to the cell, but you can talk to him through the bars if he’ll respond.”

Draco moved closer and looked at the shell of a man within the cell. “Father?” he asked, voice cracking. Lucius looked up from his position sitting against the wall. His eyes were dark and empty.

“Hello, Draco,” he said softly. His once blond hair had become grey from soot, and Draco wondered how often prisoners in Azkaban were permitted to bathe. It couldn’t be often, or Lucius would be cleaner.

“Hello, Father,” he said, looking at the Auror out of the corner of his eye and wishing the man would bugger off.

Lucius put out his arms in a mockery of grandness and said, in a mocking tone, “Welcome to my spacious abode.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow, more so than it had even in the last year with the Dark Lord. “But tell me about yourself. You’ve returned to Hogwarts, yes?”

“Yeah, I went back to finish up my NEWTs.”

“Of course. A Malfoy must have the right credentials. Are you still playing Quidditch?”

“No. None of the eighth years are allowed to play.” Draco was glad he had an excuse to give his father; he had the feeling that he wouldn’t understand if Draco said he was scared to fly now. Of course he wouldn’t. He hadn’t been there that day in the Room of Requirement, with the fire, and Potter rescuing him on a broomstick… after an experience like that, he didn’t much like brooms or fire.

Lucius tugged absently on a lank lock of hair. “I suppose there was pressure from the Board of Governors. They wanted others to have a chance. How are your studies?”

“They’re going well, thank you for asking.” How could they carry on a real conversation when the residents of the other cells were staring at them so openly? Azkaban didn’t have an official visiting area, and for the first time, Draco thought of the unfairness of that. Even criminals had basic rights that needed to be upheld.

“Are you still studying the topics you were previously?” Lucius was making eye contact now, and it was a little unnerving, really.

“Yes, I am.”

“Very good.”

“Father, how are _you?_ Are the Dementors affecting you too badly?”

Lucius shook his head. “Not like most of the others. They prey on fear and regret, Draco, and you know as well as I do that Malfoys don’t have either of those things. They won’t be able to hurt me.”

Draco thought he heard the Auror snort, but he chose to ignore it. “Mother sounded well in her last letter,” he said, pushing down the tears that were threatening to emerge. His father would never forgive him for embarrassing him by crying in public. “She’s getting tired of being inside, but the terms of her House Arrest allow the occasional visitor, and last week they let her go into Diagon Alley with a few Aurors. She wasn’t allowed to get any magical supplies, but they let her buy a few books and some new dress robes.”

“I’m delighted to hear that,” Lucius said. “You realize that you were quite lucky to get through without any sentence, I assume?”

“Yeah, I know.” Draco had made it out on a mere technicality. He had been under 17 when he’d tried to kill Dumbledore, and there was no proof that anything after that had been of his own volition. The Wizengamot had tried to sentence him, but as they couldn’t prove anything, they’d given him as big a fine as they could for his actions sixth year and had had to leave it at that. Underage wizards couldn’t be tried as adults, and in the end, that was all that had gotten him out of something much worse.

“Good. You should always understand the ways in which you are more fortunate than others.”

“All right,” Draco said. This had been his father’s mantra throughout his entire childhood, although he’d never explained what Draco should have done with this knowledge. At the same time as telling him to understand how he was lucky, Lucius also taught him that he deserved everything life had given him, and it was because of their stupidity and inability that families like the Weasleys were poor. Draco had never quite figured out how to reconcile those two facts.

“And how is Miss Parkinson? Are you still seeing her?”

“Not anymore,” Draco admitted.

“That’s a shame. She comes from a very good family, you know, and you should never underestimate the power of bloodlines. However, there are many other suitable women you could marry. I don’t know if you’ve ever considered Astoria Greengrass, but she seems like a fine woman.”

“No, I’ve never considered her,” he said shakily. Why was his father acting as though everything were normal? They were talking through the prison bars, and the way Lucius was talking you’d think they were sitting in a nice restaurant having a chat.

The Auror saved Draco from having to consider this pretense at conversation by tapping him on the shoulder. “You have to leave,” he said gruffly. “Your time is up.”

“Okay.” He looked at his father, trying to see some true remnant of the man he had once known, but none was there. “Goodbye, Father.”

“Goodbye, Draco. Return for another visit soon.”

Draco was escorted out of Azkaban, then taking by Apparition back to Hogwarts. McGonagall was there to make sure everything was in order, but as soon as she’d spoken to the Auror, she turned back towards her office, not even sparing a glance at Draco.

Instead of going to Slytherin, he found an empty classroom to sit in and think. He’d always known that Azkaban changed people, but he hadn’t thought it would make his father like—that. The only thing left of him seemed to be his sense of decorum, things in their proper order. Nothing like what had happened to Aunt Bella.

Maybe the Dementors took everything, after all, and all that anyone had left to project was what they’d always projected. Draco explored this idea tentatively, wondering how Aunt Bella had been before. Or maybe all that happened was you were condensed to your barest traits. So all his father was was decorous, and all Aunt Bella had been was crazy.

A few tears that had been threatening to spill out finally did. He bit his lip, working not to make any noise, and looked out the window at the ground below.

“Malfoy?” someone asked questioningly.

Draco turned at the sound of the voice, which was a mistake since he didn’t want to be seen like this. It was Potter (of course it was, who else would be around to see Draco at his worst?), and now he was staring openly. Draco realized they probably both remembered the last time they’d been in a similar situation, it hadn’t worked out well for either party.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded, half tempted to hex Potter in spite of the memories of sixth year.

“I’m—I was—Romilda Vane, she was trying to corner me, and I panicked and—were you just crying?”

“No,” Draco said quickly, pulling himself upright. “Somebody hit me with _Aguamenti.”_

Potter looked at him skeptically. “On your face?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“I’m not an idiot, Malfoy. You wouldn’t be hiding out in an empty classroom because of _Aguamenti._ What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Potter, and you’re mistaken. Malfoys don’t sit in classrooms crying.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Okay, enlighten me. What _do_ Malfoys sit in classrooms doing? You’re obviously here for a reason.”

“I was trying to remove the charm,” he said, but the words sounded hollow, and he needed to get out of here, needed to run. Needed to do something to keep Potter from telling anyone that Draco was crying. (As if Potter knowing wasn’t bad enough.) Mostly, he just needed to do _something,_ because if he didn’t he would start crying again.

Potter stepped towards him, glaring. “That’s rubbish, and you know it as well as it do.”

Something in the way Potter said that made Draco’s blood boil, and now he wasn’t scared, he was angry. And he was damn well going to turn this situation around.

“You’re far too concerned with my life. You know, I really hate you,” he said, taking a step forwards. Potter stepped back, seeming not to realize what he was doing. “Really, really hate you.”

He took another step, but Potter didn’t step back. They were far too close together now, and Potter was breathing heavily.

He whispered, “I know. I hate you too,” and reached up one of his hands to push back Draco’s hair, almost reverently.

“I hate you so much,” Draco whispered, and closed the distance between them with one more step forward. They were so close together now that he could smell Potter, could hear his ragged breaths, and the only thing that made sense was to lean in and let their lips touch, gently at first, then more firmly as Potter kissed him back.

His hands slipped so that they were around Potter’s waist, and Potter still had one hand in his hair, stroking so gently that Draco thought he would fall apart. After a few seconds, he pulled away, shocked at what he had just done.

“I still hate you,” he said, before all but running—Malfoys didn’t run—out of the classroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes:
> 
> I know this chapter's late, and I'm sorry. I've had other life stuff going on that just got in the way of things. I'm going out of town in a few days, so I might not post Chapter 5 this Sunday, although I'm going to try. After that hopefully things will go back to normal re: updating schedule. Thanks for understanding.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter.

“Out of the way, Potter,” Draco said, slamming his shoulder into the other boy’s. He was making a conscious effort to be publicly mean, to make up for his lapse in the empty classroom, as well as the two lapses since then. Aside from a rude gesture, Potter didn’t even acknowledge Draco’s presence. From the exterior, everything seemed exactly how it was supposed to be.

As long as the exterior was immaculate, Draco could handle the fact that everything on the interior was falling apart.

* * * * *

They were in a broom closet on the 7th floor. Potter was kissing him heatedly, and Draco knew that this was a very bad idea, but nothing in the world could have convinced him to stop at this moment. Potter’s lips were trailing their way down his throat, stopping to suck gently on a sensitive spot. Draco exhaled sharply but managed to avoid letting out a moan, (because Malfoys didn’t lose control that way, even when their enemy was stroking their hair surprisingly gently,) and Potter moved his mouth back to his lips, more forcefully now. Draco let himself be pressed up against the wall, (and he didn’t know if Malfoys allowed themselves to be pressed up against walls, but he didn’t much care at this point,) and Potter finally came up for air, pressing soft kisses on his jaw.

Then Potter looked at him (and why hadn’t he ever noticed how green Potter’s eyes were) and whispered, almost reverently, “Draco.”

It was hearing his given name coming out of his enemy’s (were they even enemies now?) mouth that brought him back to his senses. He pushed Potter away, which was surprisingly easy (hadn’t Potter’s hold on him been stronger than that?), and grabbed onto the doorknob. “Thanks, Potter. I needed to blow off some steam.”

He didn’t bother to look back; he knew exactly what expression would appear in Potter’s eyes and didn’t want to see it.

This couldn’t go on. That was the most prominent thought in his mind as he slipped out of the room and returned to Slytherin. He promised himself that this wouldn’t happen again, just as he’d promised himself every time it had happened so far.

Even if this was what he wanted (which it wasn’t, of course, because Malfoys don’t want to snog their enemies in closets,  no matter how green their eyes are), there was no way any sort of relationship with Potter could possibly end well. They would never truly be able to forgive each other for the damage dealt, the scars left. Draco had as hard a time forgiving Potter for saving his life as he did for all of the hurts over the years. Before, he’d been able to properly hate him.

Hate was good. Hate made sense. Nothing in his dealings with Potter in this past year had made sense, least of all this most recent development.

* * * * *

Nobody liked to spend too much time in Gryffindor Tower this year. Too many of them had spent too much time in some sort of close quarters, mostly in hiding, to want to be inside. Even on the worst days, the grounds were crowded and the common room was empty.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were the opposite; having spent months outside in camping in all sorts of dreadful weather, they were much more inclined to sit close to the fire and relax, enjoying the space and the warmth.

Thank goodness, or somebody might have been there to hear Ron and Hermione engage in yet another one of their ridiculous arguments. Harry was reading a very dense book on wizarding law, although every time he ran into a word he didn’t know, which was often, he felt his dream of becoming an Auror slip a little further out of reach. So he couldn’t avoid hearing the argument once it started.

“Wait, what do you mean, you have to meet Malfoy in the library?” Ron asked. “Since when do you meet Malfoy in the library?”

“Honestly, Ronald. I told you that I’m doing a project in Arithmancy. What do you think I’ve spent the past few days researching?”

“You didn’t say you were going to be working with _him.”_

Hermione looked annoyed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I had to run every decision I made by you first.”

“Has the whole world gone insane?” Ron groaned. “I understand not being mean to him, but working on a project? Have you forgotten that he tried to poison me in 6th year?” He leaned back further into the couch, as though he couldn’t support the weight of holding himself up.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t trying to poison you, he was after Dumbledore, and only because he didn’t want his family to die. Honestly, Ronald, grow up a bit.”

Ron looked hurt. “Me? I’m not the one palling around with Death Eaters. At least when it was Harry doing it, it made some sort of sense, since he’s always been kind of obsessed with Malfoy.” He looked at Harry apologetically. “No offense, mate, but it’s true. And anyways, the two of you seem to be back to hating each other.”

Harry nodded from his chair in the corner, staring pointedly at the pages of his book. He was torn between wanting to bolt and wanting to hear what was being said.

“It’s just a project, Ron.”

“Just a project?” Ron sputtered. “You could have done that project with anyone!”

“You should have seen his face when she announced it. He looked as though he were about to cry. Anyway, he’ll be too arrogant to make me do all of the work. He won’t trust me to get anything right, so if anything, he’ll be doing more than his share.” Hermione looked, if anything, rather smug.

Ron looked to Harry for help. “Come on, tell her what a git he is.”

Harry still didn’t look up. “I think I’ll stay out of this one,” he said, feeling his face heat up slightly.

Hermione crossed her arms across her chest. “He’s not evil anymore Ron, not that he really ever was. He was mostly just a bully, and I can handle bullies.”

“So what if he was ‘just a bully’? You were one of his biggest targets. Besides, poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots. If he was a bully before, he is one now.”

“Well, if that’s what you think, I’ll just leave now. You know, I was a bit of a bully myself, in primary school.” If Harry had known Hermione less well, he’d have thought she was angry, but the slight wobbling of her chin told him that her feelings were hurt.

“What?” Ron asked, blinking bemusedly.

“There was a group of boys—they always made fun of my hair and clothes and everything. So I got together a group of other girls and we hit them with books.”

Harry laughed, and looked up in spite of himself. “Seriously?”

“It’s not funny!” Hermione said waspishly.

“It is a little bit,” Ron said, chuckling. “You hit people with books?”

“Yes! I really did, and I fail to see the humor in that statement.”

“It’s just—if that’s what you consider bullying, you _are_ still a bully! You hit me with a book yesterday, when I asked when I would possibly use Transfiguration in my real life.”

“Well, Transfiguration is important!” Hermione cried indignantly. “Besides, I didn’t hit you hard.”

Ron continued to laugh for a few minutes, then stopped abruptly. “Anyway, that’s not nearly as bad as the kind of bullying we’re talking about. Malfoy has done some—foul, awful, things, and—”

“And if I want him to be my partner in Arithmancy, that’s my choice,” Hermione said, in a tone that meant that there would be no more discussion.

Ron looked as though he were going to argue. He opened his mouth and closed it several times, and then, finally, nodded. “All right, if that’s what you want. But if he says one word to you about your blood status—”

“Hit him with a book,” Harry suggested, making Ron laugh again.

“Yeah, that’s right. Hit him with a book. Check out the biggest Arithmancy book you can in case you need to hit him, all right?”

Hermione nodded and laughed. “I will.”

Harry laughed too, but while he did it, he was looking at Hermione out of the corner of his eye and wondering how big of a book she’d have to hit him with before she forgave him for his secret.

There might not be a book in the world that would make her forgive him for keeping this from her.

* * * * *

_Dear Mr. Ollivander,_

_I am writing to enquire about wandlore, specifically, how wands change allegiance. I am an apprentice wandmaker, and the man that I work for said that you were the only person in the world who could answer my query. What I’m wondering is how wands decide when they’ve been won. For example, if two people were to practice the_ Expelliarmus _charm on each other, would their wands be able to change allegiance? And if not, how can the wands tell the difference between that and an actual use of_ Expelliarmus? 

_Any response that you could give me would be beneficial to my research. If I can garner enough information, I would like to do my dissertation on this so that I can graduate from my program. Besides the apprenticeship, my dissertation is the last thing I need to complete my degree, after which I can start my own business._

_Yours Truly,_  
 _Alpheratz Virgula_

Draco did a subtle charm to make the letter hard to trace. It was all he could think to do; even with no magic, Ollivander would be able to recognize a magical signature purely based on proximity. Draco had seen him do it, which he was trapped at Malfoy Manor. The best he could hope was that this spell would work as intended and stop him from really considering trying to trace it.

Once he’d sent the letter, using a school owl, he walked down the stairs from the Owlery and into the library, where he was supposed to meet Granger to work on their project. (He couldn’t think of her as anything but Granger or the Mudblood, no matter how hard he tried, and he’d made that promise to Potter. Although maybe he should break it. Maybe that would make it easier for the two of them to stay away from each other.)

She was already there, of course, and her nose was already in her textbook. She looked up when he sat down next to her. “I’ve been looking into the Chaldean method, and I’m wondering if we should use it in our project,” she said without preamble. “It’s ridiculous that we’re only being taught one way, just because it’s more modern. Many magics rooted in more ancient tradition prove to be more powerful.”

“Give me a second. I’m not ready to deal with you yet.” Draco faced forward, took a few deep breaths, and turned back to Granger. “All right. Now explain why you think there’s any merit all to Chaldean’s method.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean you don’t? I’ve just started doing research, but it seems evident that it’s always better to try more methods. The biggest difference is leaving out the number nine—”

“Which, besides seven, is possibly the most important of the magical numbers,” Draco interrupted.

“Not according to Merlin. He claims that while three is a powerful number, multiplying it times itself would actually remove value because of the hole in the middle. Here, I’ll show you.” She drew three triangles, stacked to make one triangle. “See, I drew nine angles, but because of the way they’re placed, there are three additional angles. Merlin’s hypothesis was that this correlates to the evidence that nine is magically much less strong than three or seven. Remember those cases we looked at in fifth year about people who tried to set up wards using nine as their base number? It was catastrophic. Now, I’m not sure I agree with Merlin’s reasoning, but the evidence is enough to make me doubt the importance of nine in the magical spectrum.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Merlin, slow down. Don’t you need to stop and take breaths once in a while?”

She shrugged. “All I’m saying is that you’re acting on a premise that’s shoddy at best.”

“You still haven’t shown me any evidence as to the benefits of the Chaldean Method.”

“I haven’t done enough research to prove conclusively that it’ll even work as well as the Agrippan Method, but I’d like us to work with both, at least for now. That could even be the basis of our project, if you’d like. Ours would certainly be the best in the class.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, mulling it over. “How’d you even find out about the Chaldean Method? _I’ve_ only heard it mentioned in passing.”

Granger looked at him blankly. “I read.”

“That’s really it? I didn’t know Nott very well, but he read at least as much as you, and he didn’t spout nearly as much useless information.” Draco felt as though he needed to add that jab at the end, because without it his statement sounded far too complementary.

She shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t know, okay? Everyone always asks why I’m so smart, but I don’t know. I just am, I guess.”

Draco nodded. “We should get to work.”

“Yes, we should,” Granger replied. “Now, if we use the Chaldean Method there’s another axis, right by Stonehenge, that might be significant…”

* * * * *

“We can’t keep meeting like this,” Harry said, stroking Draco’s hair lightly. (Draco wasn’t sure when he’d fallen into the bad habit of referring to Potter as “Harry,” but he couldn’t seem to break himself of it.)

“Why exactly not?” Draco asked, in a voice that would have sounded much colder had he not been leaning against a tree outside of Hogwarts, in his enemy’s arms after having just been thoroughly snogged. He looked out at the lake, wondering what the merpeople did this time of year, when it was so cold.

“Because this whole thing is a very bad idea,” Harry said, sounding more tired than anything. “We’re too different, and there’s no way that we’d work as a couple, and—it’s just not going to work.”

“Merlin, Potter, there’s no reason to get emotional. We’re two guys, we’re horny as fuck, so we snog sometimes to—blow off steam.”

Harry looked at him penetratingly. “Is that really all you think this is?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment when they were both looking into each other’s eyes, searching, staring each other down. The Harry nodded tiredly. “All right, if that’s what you want. But I need more than—there needs to be some sort of plan, and we need to be able to talk, and know how we’re acting around each other in class, and—”

“If the next words out of your mouth are that we need to have some sort of public relationship, then you can forget it,” Draco said, cutting into Potter’s ramble “We can have a plan, and we can talk, though I’ve absolutely no idea what the two of us could possibly talk about, but I am not your boyfriend, and you are not telling your friends what’s going on, all right?”

Harry nodded. “Okay. That sounds—I can live with that.” He looked as though he were about to say something else, but couldn’t quite get the words out.

“Oh, whatever else it is, just say it,” Draco said crossly. “Merlin knows you’re thinking it loud enough that I can almost hear you.”

“It’s just—I need to know—look, Hermione’s my best friend, all right? And you hate Muggleborns, and I have to know—do you still want her dead?” Once he’d managed to ask the question, Harry looked back up into Draco’s eyes.

Draco sighed and leaned back into Harry’s touch. “I never wanted her dead, Potter. The killing people part was never my idea. No, I don’t think Mud—Muggleborns—should be allowed at schools like Hogwarts. They hold the rest of us back, quite frankly. But I never thought they should be killed. I just—didn’t really fight it that much when it started to happen.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.” Draco almost felt as though by saying that, he were making some sort of vow, although a vow to do what, he wasn’t sure.

“Okay,” said Harry softly. “I believe you.”

_Don’t,_ Draco wanted to say. _What I said was true, but don’t you dare believe me. You believing me just brings us one step closer to the inevitable abyss where you get hurt, and I laugh even though I don’t think it’s funny._ He settled for the next best thing, the thing he could say. “You should know that I’m using you,” he said flatly. “This changes nothing. You could be anyone, for all I care. You’re just—convenient.” He threw the words out harshly, the only words he knew that could get them separate, a little further from each other, a little further from harm.

Harry was silent for a few moments, opting to look out at the water rather than talk. Finally, he said, “I know.”

“So you can’t go getting sappy and attached. We aren’t dating, okay?” Draco fidgeted with his sleeve, carefully buttoning and unbuttoning it.

“I know.” Harry was very still.

“If it weren’t you, it’d be someone else.”

Harry finally turned. “You’ve made yourself pretty clear about that, yeah.” He reached down, picked up a rock, and threw it into the water with a loud splash.

“Well, good.”

There was nothing else to say, so after that they didn’t talk.

* * * * *

The school owl returned a week later with a lengthy response.

_Dear Mr. “Virgula,”_

_Nice try. While I respect your desire to keep your identity secret, Mr. Potter, I recognized your magical signature at once. I’d also like to ask why you chose your alias so poorly. I’m sure you were trying to be clever, but even a lesser wandmaker than I would have realized that you simply used the Latin word for wand. If you want to know anything about wandlore, just ask me as yourself. I don’t intend to give any information about your wand to the papers, if that is what concerns you._

_With regards to your question, it’s a complicated subject, and I told you most of what I know last spring, although that was in particular with regards to the Elder Wand, which is more sensitive to changes in allegiance than most. For example, generally stealing ownership of a wand wouldn’t give you ownership of other wands that wand has taken, but in the unusual case of your wand and Mr. Malfoy’s, that’s exactly what happened. My only answer to why that might have happened is that the more powerful a wand is, the more fickle its allegiance, because wands of the caliber of the Elder Wand quite simply don’t want to be owned. A constant change of owners means that it doesn’t get to drawn in to someone else’s magic or feel a strong sense of loyalty. Albus Dumbledore owned the wand longer than any other known person in its history, which is why it was so easy for Mr. Malfoy to take control of it. Usually, a wizard of Dumbledore’s caliber would never have been able to be disarmed by a child._

_I hope that answers your question. You are welcome to write me with more specific questions any time you wish. It’s a fascinating subject, and one that even I don’t understand entirely._

_Regards,_  
 _Garrick Ollivander_

Draco slid the note into his bag and finished his coffee, trying to act as though it had been a perfectly normal note. As though Garrick Ollivander, possibly the most brilliant wandmaker in the world, hadn’t read his magical signature as that of Harry Potter.

He slid his head into his hands as another realization hit him. The dream, the memories that sometimes happened—those were Potter’s, too. Everything he’d been trying to tell himself didn’t happen, wasn’t a part of Potter’s life—and the better magic, which meant that he had to admit that maybe Potter really was more powerful than him, or at least knew a lot more spells.

Fuck.

He had to do more research.

He stood up from the table, managing to avoid knocking over his pumpkin juice, and started to walk out of the Great Hall, managing to not look as though he were rushing out. He had just made it to the end of the table when Pansy came from behind him and grabbed his arm.

“Draco, can I have a word with you?” she asked in an undertone.

“Of course,” he said. “Do you want to walk by the lake?”

“Sure.”

Draco couldn’t help but feel a little happier, as they walked out to the grounds. He hadn’t had someone to properly talk in months. His loneliness had reached a point where he actually looked forward to his sessions working with Granger on the project, although he acted as though he were bored and annoyed so as to keep up appearances.

Once they got to the lake, Pansy turned to Draco. For a minute, she just stared at him helplessly. Then she said, “Draco, are you sleeping with Potter?”

“No!” Draco cried reflexively.

She looked at him sadly. “I’m not stupid. Please don’t underestimate my intelligence.”

“I’m not sleeping with him! Who told you that?” Draco kicked a clot of dirt, which broke apart. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Pansy’s eye.

“Nobody told me. I figured it out on my own.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

Pansy looked at him penetratingly. “Who gave you that love bite, then?”

His hand flew to his neck. “Fuck,” he said. “How long has that been there?”

“I only noticed it this morning, but you should probably wear a scarf if you don’t want anyone else to see it.”

Draco’s mind was suddenly filled with the memory of Potter slamming him into the wall last night, and the—activities, that had given him that love bite. How had he not thought to check?

He attempted a Concealment Charm, which unsurprisingly, didn’t work. He’d never been able to do one before, but he thought he might as well attempt one in case his wand could do it now.

Pansy was still looking at him expectantly.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?” Draco asked sheepishly.

“If you’re not sleeping with Potter, who gave you that love bite?”

“Here’s a question for you, if you’re so clever. What makes you think it _was_ Potter?”

Pansy just looked at him. “I’ve known you since you were four, Draco. I know the signs. Remember fourth year, when you snogged Viktor Krum and I figured it out within ten minutes of you coming back to the common room?”

Draco laughed in spite of himself. “Yeah, I did do that, didn’t I? It was right after the Yule Ball, and I was so mad that Granger had gotten someone so good to take her, so I decided I was going to steal him away from her.”

“And you were so mad when he told you that it had been a mistake.” Pansy grinned, then looked at him seriously. “Maybe no one else knows you well enough, Draco, but I do, and you just gave yourself away entirely.”

“What? How?”

“Granger. You said Granger, not the Mudblood.”

Draco’s face heated up. “So? Maybe I’m sleeping with her, not Potter.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow.

He sighed. “Okay. Potter and I aren't sleeping together, but—we’ve been snogging. And if you tell anyone, I’ll hex you so completely that it will make what happened to Marietta Edgecombe look reasonable.”

She laughed. “Fair enough. Now, give me the dirty details. I want to know everything.”

Draco put on the most pompous face he could muster. “Malfoys don’t kiss and tell.”

Pansy shoved his shoulder. “Liar. You never kiss and manage _not_ to tell. Now spill.”

Draco sat down on the grass, and patted the seat next to him. He would tell Pansy anything she wanted to know, if it meant that he had a friend to talk to again.

He had missed this.

* * * * *

_Mr. Ollivander,_

_I should have known you’d recognize my magical signature. Sorry for trying to hide, but what with how the press has been since the Battle of Hogwarts, you can understand why I was nervous about telling you my true identity._

_I wrote to you because I may have done something stupid, and wanted to know your opinion. See, I gave Malfoy back the wand I took from him, which means that he might be master of the Elder Wand now. Does it work like that? Or is giving it back not the same as giving him ownership?_

_Thanks,_  
 _Harry Potter_

Draco did the best he could to sound like Harry, put the same charm on it as the last time, and sent it off. Granted, the charm didn’t seem to have worked, but doing anything different might make Ollivander realize his mistake. It was with some apprehension that Draco gave the letter to the same school owl and sent it off. Not only for fear he would be found out, but for fear of what Ollivander’s answer would be. He wasn’t sure what would be worse, quite frankly; being master of the Elder Wand, or not being master of the Elder Wand. Neither sounded particularly appealing, and he wished he’d never heard of it.

* * * * *

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I am unsure of the implications of what you have just told me. If possible, you should find out whether Mr. Malfoy’s wand is working for him the way it ought to. Normal rules of wandlore would dictate that you returning the wand isn’t suitable for changing allegiance, but because it was given by choice, it will work as well as most borrowed wands. However, the Elder Wand is so sensitive that it may well have accepted that as a change in ownership, in which case Mr. Malfoy is once again the true master of the Elder Wand._

_Talk to Mr. Malfoy, but don’t tell him why. Even if he is master, as long as he doesn’t know where the wand is, he can’t use it for harm, but even so, he should not know the truth of the situation._

_I intend to do more research and let you know what I find out. In the future, please contact me BEFORE you go around messing with aspects of wandlore that you can’t possibly understand._

_With Regards,_  
 _Garrick Ollivander_

Draco slid the letter into his pocket and looked back at Pansy. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“Who was that from?” she asked, smirking. “Was it from him?” She pointed her thumb backwards to where Harry was sitting. Draco saw him look up, the minute she pointed, and swore.

“Put your hand down,” he said. “He can see you.”

Pansy grinned widely, then turned and gave Harry a wave and wink. His eyes grew wide, and he stared daggers at Draco.

“Remind me why I tolerate you?” Draco asked.

“Oh, sweetie, think of how boring your life would be without me,” Pansy said, far too cheerily for someone who had just ruined his life.

* * * * *

Draco was early, so he sat against the tree in their usual spot and shivered, wishing that they could meet indoors. He couldn’t help but look up every few minutes to see if Harry was there yet. When he finally looked up and saw Harry there, he waved him over. It wasn’t until he got close that Draco realized he was glaring.

“Pansy knows, doesn’t she?” Harry asked. “I saw her at breakfast. She knows.”

Draco looked at him and decided in an instant that lying wouldn’t help the situation. “Yes.”

“You said that we couldn’t tell anyone! If I knew you were off telling everyone who happened to stop by, I would have bloody well said something to Ron and Hermione!”

Draco’s breath caught, but he managed to keep his cool. “She found out on her own, all right?”

“Well, then I should be able to tell one of my friends,” Harry said firmly. “I think I’ll mention it to Hermione tomorrow.”

“Why her? Why not the Weasel?”

“He’ll yell. Hermione will look sternly at me, but that'll be the worst of it. So, can I tell her?” Harry leaned against a tree and looked at him, with an unreadable expression on his face.

“No, you bloody well can’t!” Draco said fiercely. “Pansy found out by accident; I certainly didn’t tell her. My bad luck in friends doesn’t give you the right to tell anyone about this—thing between us, so shut up about about it, all right!”

“Fine, whatever.” Harry started to walk away, obviously still mad, but Draco put his hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, putting his forehead against Harry’s and looking him in the eye. “It’s just—not yet, okay? Not for a while.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t.” He pressed a kiss to Harry’s lips, gently. “Please.”

“Why do you have to be so difficult?” Harry asked quietly, slipping his arms around Draco’s waist.

“I don’t know if you believe this sort of thing,” Draco said, trying to keep his tone light and conversational so that they wouldn’t fight anymore, “but Professor Trelawney would blame it on my Scorpio Venus.”

Harry looked at him blankly. “Is that some sort of Divination thing? I failed that O.W.L., you know.”

“It’s Muggle Astrology, actually, but forget it. It doesn’t matter anyways.”

Harry nodded, almost going cross-eyed from the proximity of their faces. He leaned back slightly, then kissed Draco.

They stayed out until three in the morning, and Draco’s Venus sign didn’t matter one bit.

* * * * *

Draco knew that Harry wanted something that wasn’t possible. He wanted something that had been lost, or broken, during the war. He wanted redemption, and when Draco took off his shirt, slowly, one button at a time, he was telling a story, giving a reminder with the scar on his chest and the tattoo on his arm that this was borrowed time, that it couldn’t last, that it wasn’t real. It was the only way he could think of to absolve himself, to rid himself of the sins of being young and stupid and following his emotions.

Redemption. Such a hollow word, so hollow that it could float, did float, across Draco’s line of vision as Harry kissed the scars, as reverently as though he thought that anything could change, as though the idea of love wasn’t a joke, an impossibility. As though kissing the scars would make them go away.

So hollow that it sat in his chest as they undid each other’s waistbands, the idea of redemption making him feel full even though he knew that this fullness was only another sort of emptiness, a carbonation that filled him quickly but would leave him as soon as the bubbles popped. He kissed Harry, kissed the scar on his forehead, kissed the scars on his hand.

There were a lot of scars, more than he could possibly kiss better.

And there was still the idea of redemption, an idea too big and hollow to fit into the cracks, the places where he’d broken and had to put himself back together, so big and hollow that when he came, he cried out and tears filled his eyes, and Harry stroked them away, whispering hollow words and hollow ideas into Draco’s ears.

Redemption. What a joke. There was no redemption, or at least, not for them.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hello, Mother,” Draco said, standing in the living room. Aurors stood in every doorway, as though they expected one or both of the Malfoys to make a break for it. As though either of them had a place to go.

“Hello,” Narcissa said, pulling her flimsy blanket closer around her. She seemed small and frail, as though even the slightest gust of wind would blow her away. She’d always been small, but she’d never _seemed_ small. Even Lucius had cowed before her when she was in bad temper. She wasn’t a Black for nothing. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Of course.” Draco sat on the ornate sofa and leaned forward across the coffee table to see his mother better. She’d always been Mother, never Mum, even when he was younger. She was too stately and self-important to be anything but Mother.

“Don’t mind the blanket. Since my wand was taken, I haven’t figured out how to control the heating charms, so they’re still set for summer. I light fires, of course, but that’s a poor substitute with a house this drafty. I don’t see why I can’t have temporary use of a wand to fix it. It’s not as though a Heating Charm were dangerous magic.” She looked at the Aurors pointedly, but none of them responded. The Narcissa Malfoy glare was only as good as the influence behind it, and everyone knew that she didn’t have any influence anymore.

“I’m sure you could find out what Muggles use. They’ve got to have something, or winters wouldn’t be bearable.”

Narcissa sniffed. “But of course I won’t use a Muggle device. It’s unthinkable, really. I’m not desperate enough for that, I can assure you.” Beneath her blanket, she shivered. “I could never do something like that, even assuming it would work in a house so rife with magic.” She pulled the blanket closer to her body, or attempted to; it was so close already that it was hard to see much difference. “Now, is there a reason you’re here, instead of having fun with your friends at Hogsmeade?”

Draco flinched. “I wanted to see you. What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I know I’m just a burden to you. You should be out enjoying your youth.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

She sighed. “If only your father were here. He knows how to talk to you.”

“I visited Father recently.”

Narcissa’s eyes flicked up, showing the first real signs of interest since Draco had entered the house. “Really? How was he—how did it go?”

_Well, it was awful, quite frankly, and I’m not sure I want to see him ever again if it’s going to make me feel like that._ “He’s doing well. He still seems like himself.”

“Are they treating him well?” she asked eagerly, leaning forward a little bit. Her blanket slipped down, and Draco saw that underneath it all she was wearing was a nightgown. She hadn’t even felt the need to get dressed for his visit.

“As well as to be expected. He’s holding up well. We had a nice chat.” Draco inspected his cuticles so that he wouldn’t have to look his mother in the eye. He wasn’t exactly lying, just leaving out the most important details, the ones that changed the nature of what he was saying.

“Did he mention me?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, he did.”

“Well? What did he say?”

_What_ had _he said?_ “Well, he—we didn’t have much time to talk, but I told him you were doing well, and he said that he was glad.”

“That’s it?” Tears welled in her eyes, and Draco forced his eyes back to his cuticles, considerably shaken. He had never seen his mother cry before.

“I had less than ten minutes to talk to him. There just—there wasn’t time.”

Narcissa nodded, dabbing her eyes daintily. “I understand. I’m sorry to react this way. I know that the last thing you wanted to do today was come over here and watch me cry.”

_Well, it definitely wasn’t at the top of my list, no,_ Draco thought, annoyances momentarily breaking through his pity. _Things are hard for me too, you know, but I’m not falling apart like this. Weren’t you the one who taught me not to cry in front of people?_

“No, it’s all right,” he finally said, mostly because she was looking at him expectantly. “This year’s been hard for you.”

“I just don’t know who I am without my magic,” she said shakily, sliding her hand into his. “I try to keep going, but I get so scared.”

In a flash, Draco realized that she had really lost everything that mattered to her from the outcome of the war. Her whole life had revolved around deep-rooted Pureblood culture. Now she didn’t have her magic, her friends were all dead or had fled the country, and Pureblood culture was being shoved off to the side for the sake of equality. There was good reason for it, maybe, but that didn’t make it hurt less for people who had valued that over everything.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking his mother in the eye. “But you’re going to have to be brave.”

She nodded. “I’m just glad that you still get to live your life. I was so scared that you’d lose everything after—at least I know that I gave up what I did for your sake. I lost everything so that you wouldn’t have to.”

Draco stood. “Thank you,” he said, kissing her forehead. “I have to get back now.”

* * * * *

Draco pulled blades of grass out of the ground absently, willing himself to relax.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, slipping his arms around Draco’s waist and pulling him towards him. “You seem anxious.”

“It’s nothing.” Draco tried to lean back into Harry, but he was too tense and couldn’t get comfortable.

“Are you sure? Because—”

“Drop it, Potter.”

“Fine.”

Draco could feel Harry’s breath tickling the back of his neck every time he took a breath; it was driving him crazy. “Merlin, Potter, breathe a little louder, why don’t you?”

“Okay, seriously, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is bloody wrong!”

“You know, I don’t get you at all,” Harry said. “If there’s something that’s upsetting you, say it, all right? I’m not going to play the guessing game to get you to tell me what’s up.”

Draco sighed loudly. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“Fine. Hey, I didn’t see you in Hogsmeade today. I thought you must have stayed here, but when I ran into Parkinson in the hallway, she said you’d been gone all day.”

“You asked Pansy about me? Are you an idiot? I told you that I don’t want anyone to know about us!”

“Calm down, will you? There was no one else around, and you told me she already knows. What’s with you?”

Draco pulled away so that Potter wasn’t holding him, but he didn’t turn around. “You want to know what’s going on? Fine. I was visiting my mother today.” It was easier to say than it should have been, probably because it was dark and they weren’t making eye contact.

“Oh. Are you—how was it?”

“Terrible. She can’t take care of herself on her own, or at least, she doesn’t care enough to try. You’d have thought she was the teenager there, from how she was acting.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry quietly.

“I just—I guess I don’t feel very complete. I never really thought of life the way it is as even a possibility. It’s like I’ve been cheated out of something. Seeing her like that—she’s my mother. I shouldn’t have to be the adult in that situation.”

“I know what you mean, about feeling incomplete,” Harry said, reaching forward and stroking Draco’s hair. Draco leaned against him again, deciding that he liked the feel of someone solid behind him, keeping him upright. “I never really expected to make it. Through the war, that is.”

Draco felt his muscles tense up. The last thing he wanted to talk about right now was the war. Sometimes when he was with Harry, he could almost forget about all that had happened. Could pretend he was a normal teenage boy who’d never had to torture anyone, a normal teenage boy who wasn’t scarred so badly.

“I don’t know what it was like for you. But for me—you have to understand, Draco, everyone saw me as the leader. I was the only person they trusted to win. And I didn’t know how to lead.”

Draco forced himself to breathe deeply. _Don’t you know what you’re doing right now? Don’t you know that the war’s not really over, that it’ll never be over for us? I relive the war every night when I sleep, you stopped helping me get the stuff for Dreamless Sleep Potion, and I can’t steal the ingredients from Newton myself because I’m pretty sure McGonagall’s just looking for a reason to expel me without upsetting any families._

“But I did lead. And I did a good job at it. But now—I don’t have a clear purpose anymore, you know? All I was ever supposed to do was defeat Voldemort, and now that I’ve done that, there’s nothing else.”

“I’m sure there’s something else you can do,” Draco said, trying desperately to steer the conversation away from this dangerous topic. “Have you ever considered playing professional Quidditch? I feel like you’d be pretty good at it. I know you beat me all the time, at any rate, and I consider myself to be a decent player, so—”

“Shhh,” Harry said. “Relax. I know the war’s hard to talk about, but it’s important.”

That was when Draco snapped. “Hard to talk about? More like impossible. Are you nuts?” He stood up and brushed himself off. “Can you think of any way this conversation could possibly end well? I fought against you, Potter, and I’d do it again if I had to. Merlin, all of this talk about having a higher calling, and that calling was to destroy my side!”

Harry looked at him bleakly. “It wasn’t really your side, Draco. You didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, if we can’t talk about something as important as the war, what can we ta 

“I don’t care what we talk about! This isn’t supposed to be about talking! And didn’t it ever occur to you how lucky you are? None of the rest of us got a calling. Nobody else got a bloody prophecy telling them which side to be on, what they were supposed to do. So excuse me if I don’t really feel like participating in this conversation right now.”

“Don’t go,” Harry said, standing up. “I can drop it, if you want. I just thought—”

“Thought what, exactly? That talking about this would be good for us? That this could ever be something real? You’re an idiot, Potter. This isn’t a Beedle the Bard story. The Golden Hero and the Death Eater don’t get a happy ending together. So why don’t you just stop trying to make this work?” Draco crossed his arms across his chest, feeling as though if he just held himself tightly enough, he could hold everything he was thinking and feeling inside of him.

Harry looked down, drawing circles in the ground with his foot. “I’m sorry, all right? Clearly, I said the wrong thing.”

“You just always have to go and be stupid, don’t you Potter?” Draco asked, hugging himself tighter so the tears wouldn’t escape. “Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I need to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, sleep. That’s a good idea. Are you sleeping better now?”

Draco didn’t bother to respond. He just left.  Leaving was the easiest option, and he didn’t think he could deal with difficult choices right now.

* * * * *

_Mr. Ollivander,_

_I talked to Malfoy. He said that his wand is working fine, but when I talked to one of his friends she said that he was having trouble because his magic didn’t feel like his. I couldn’t find out more, because he and his friend were both wary of talking to me in the first place. I hope that helps._

_Yours Truly,_  
 _Harry Potter_

Draco would have given him more information, but anything else would have seemed suspicious for Harry to know. The idea that Pansy would know what was going on with his wand and tell Harry was absurd, of course, but Ollivander didn’t know that. Draco also had a deep-rooted fear that he would be discovered if he mentioned that he thought it was Harry’s magic; Ollivander might realize that the magical signature was a bit off, and therefore that it was really Draco writing to him.

He finished his cup of coffee (only his second today; he’d been sleeping better since this thing with Potter started, although that was offset by how late he’d been staying out) and grabbed his bag. He was going to be late to the library, but there was no rush; if Granger got there first she’d just do research without him.

When he slid into the seat next to her, a subtle Tempus Charm showed him to only be ten minutes late. He glanced over at the stack of books. “What are you working on right now?” he asked. “Still trying to defend the honor of the Chaldean Method?”

She looked up, seeming surprised that he was there. “Oh, I didn’t hear you walk in. I thought I’d wait until you got here to start on the project. Six years with Harry and Ron has proven to me that if I start without someone, I’ll end up doing the whole project by myself.”

“Then what in the name of Merlin are you reading?” Draco asked, flipping the book so he could see its cover. “ _Studies in Conditions of Non-Wizard Near-Humans?_ Bloody hell, Granger. I never knew you were a masochist. This has got to be a thousand pages long.”

She grabbed the book back from him, looking highly affronted. “You made me lose my place. Besides, it’s only eight hundred fifty-two pages.”

“Eight hundred fifty-two is still far too many pages to read about the conditions of goblins and vampires. Are you trying to get an NEWT in History of Magic?”

“No, actually, I’m not,” she replied waspishly. “If you must know,  I’m starting study for my MULEs. I’m planning to take them in the fall.”

_“_ You’re taking the Mirthlessly Unpleasant Law Exams? I wouldn’t have thought you were planning to join the Wizengamot.” Draco leaned forward and looked at the book with a new interest.

“I’m not. Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m trying to get a job writing magical law. Some of the rules on the books right now are absolutely foul, quite honestly. Did you know that people can refuse to hire someone on the basis of their being a werewolf? And goblins don’t get nearly the healthcare benefits that wizards do, even when they’re working much more dangerous jobs.”

_And our educational system could use some serious work, and prison conditions aren’t that great, either,_ Draco thought, an image of his father’s cell coming to mind. He mentally shook himself. “We should get to work,” he said, pushing the image firmly from his mind. “You can study for the MULEs on your own time.”

* * * * *

Hermione left the library an hour and a half later, barely keeping back a grin. Malfoy had spent the morning alternately being quite tolerable and being an absolute arse whenever he realized he’d forgotten to be mean, which on the whole was more funny than hurtful. For the most part, his insults sounded like he was trying to fill some sort of quota, which made them lose most of their bite.

This was also the first time that she could remember working on a group project and _not_ being made to do all of the work. Even Ernie had started to fall into the habit of begging off work when he was her partner, claiming halfheartedly that he “had other work that takes precedence.” Hermione’s prediction about Malfoy had been right; he was far too full of himself to let anyone take over a project, and very used to working with Crabbe and Goyle, who were so inept that he also did most of the work himself.

Ginny was waiting for her in the corridor. “Got a minute?” she asked, clearly in high spirits.

“Sure. I’ve done most of my homework for the weekend, so I’ve got time,” Hermione said. “I’m assuming that you wanted to talk in private?”

Ginny nodded and took Hermione’s arm so as to steer her towards an alcove with a small window. After looking to see that no one was around, she turned back to Hermione and said, with tones of high amusement, “Harry has a love bite, and I don’t think he’s noticed yet.”

“A love bite?” Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. “But who—”

“That’s why it’s so funny! He must be seeing someone secretly.” Ginny laughed. “Can you imagine that scenario? He’s so obtuse, it must be driving whoever it is crazy.” She pushed herself up onto the windowsill and sat on the ledge.

Hermione bit her lip. “It might not be a good thing, if it’s a secret. What if Romilda’s done something? She’d love to have everyone know, of course, but she’d have to be an idiot to make something like that public after your threat.”

Ginny looked concerned for a moment, then shook her head. “It couldn’t be a love potion. He wouldn’t be able to keep it secret. I remember when Fred and George were testing their line of love potions on Angelina Johnson—don’t look at me like that, Hermione, she agreed to let them test on her—and all she could talk about until it wore off was how wonderful and clever Fred was. She couldn’t not mention it if she’d wanted to. Towards the end, I think she even composed a sonnet to his eyebrows.”

Hermione’s face relaxed a little. “That’s true, I suppose. Are you sure it was a love bite that you saw? I can’t picture Harry wanting to keep something like that secret.”

“He would if the person didn’t want to be talked about in the _Prophet._ He hates his fame, so he’d understand that.” Ginny cocked her head thoughtfully. “I wonder if she goes to Hogwarts. Maybe she’s older.”

“I’ll ask him tonight, if I get the chance,” Hermione said.

Ginny looked at her sharply. “Don’t you dare mention it to him. Haven’t you seen how happy he is lately? You don’t want to ruin that. Harry takes a long time to come around to some things. One mention of it before he’s ready and he’ll bolt. Besides, there’s got to be a reason it’s a secret.”

Hermione sighed and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll let him bring it up in his own time.”

Ginny grinned even more excitedly. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you! I got an owl back from the Harpies this morning. They said that they can send scouts to our match against Ravenclaw!”

“Ginny! That’s great!” Hermione threw her arms around her friend, making her fall off the windowsill. “So they’re seriously considering you, then?”

“Yes!” Ginny cried, righting herself. “They said that if they like me enough, they’ll invite me to try out for the actual team. They might have a chaser opening this year. Can you believe it? If I get in that’ll mean I go right to real playing. No messing around with reserve teams. And the Harpies! They’re _good,_ Hermione, really good! They have a decent chance at making it to the championships this year.”

“That gives Demelza a good chance to start being seen too, doesn’t it?”

Ginny nodded. “Although she isn’t planning to try out for any all-women teams, thank goodness. I don’t want to be competing with her for a Quidditch position.  That’s the sort of thing that can ruin friendships.”

Hermione hugged Ginny again, a thrill of excitement going through her. They were _so close_ to starting their lives, and things were finally falling into place.

* * * * *

_Just a short nap,_ Draco thought, stretching out across his bed. He could afford to get a few hours of sleep before he met Harry, and if he thought he could sleep, he should take the opportunity. He pulled his sheets up to his ears and set his wand to sound an alarm before it was the arranged meeting time. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

_He was flying through the air, and his broom was on fire, but if he went fast enough maybe he could get rid of the flames, and he went towards the Forbidden Forest, as fast as he dared. He flew above the trees, and there was a tower up ahead, the Astronomy Tower, so he landed there and dropped his broom off of it so that he wouldn’t catch fire, only as soon as he dropped it it wasn’t his broom, it was Harry. Harry, falling, Harry, flying through the air and landing on the ground with a deafening sound, that kept getting louder and louder—_

“Draco, wake up!” Greg said, shaking him. “Merlin. Your alarm’s been going off for five minutes. I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.”

“Sorry,” Draco said groggily, picking up his wand and cancelling the spell. He threw his cloak on and left the dormitory. Greg was looking at him with a question in his eyes, but Draco didn’t think he needed to explain why he was leaving after curfew to someone who didn’t want to associate with him anymore.

“You have to steal me more ingredients for Dreamless Sleep Potion,” he said as soon as he was within earshot of Harry.

Harry looked up from his spot on the ground. He was hugging his knees, and looked incredibly small and sad. “You know I can’t,” he said.

“Why not?” Draco sat down next to him.

“I’ve already taken too much.”

“You didn’t take that much at all. Just enough for two batches.”

Harry didn’t look at him. “I stole more than that.”

“Why?”

Harry sighed. “I have nightmares too, you know. One nightmare, actually. It’s the same each time. I’m walking into the forest, and I know I’m about to die.”

Draco looked up at him incredulously. “That’s it? That’s the worst you get?”

Harry looked hurt. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No, it bloody well isn’t! Do you have any idea… I get nightmares about dying in a fire, about torturing all of my friends, about my father sitting in Azkaban… and you’re telling me that every night, you’re plagued by nightmares of _walking into a forest?”_

“I died in that forest!”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You died? When?”

“Well, I’m not sure I exactly died—but Voldemort did kill me. He used _Avada Kedavra_ on me, and then I was at King’s Cross station with Dumbledore—”

“You know, if you didn’t want to tell me about your dreams all you had to do was say so.”

“No, it’s true, I swear! I had all three Deathly Hallows, so when I died I had a choice to stay dead or to come back, and I chose to come back because Voldemort wasn’t dead yet.”

For some reason, this made Draco want to cry. “Don’t. Stop lying, Harry. I can’t take that from you.”

Harry looked hurt. “Just because something’s too bizarre to wrap your head around doesn’t mean it’s a lie, you know.” His voice was quiet and rhythmic, as though he were telling a story. “When I was little, I didn’t know that magic was real. The Muggles I grew up with never told me anything about it. When Hagrid found me and told me I was a wizard, I thought I was crazy. It wasn’t until we got to Diagon Alley that I really stopped thinking he was pulling a prank on me.”

“You’re comparing finding out about the wizarding world to being told that when people die they hang out at a train station with their dead Headmaster but then come back to life because they want to kill a Dark wizard?”

“I can understand why you’re skeptical, but you’re just going to have to trust me, okay!”

They were silent for a few minutes. Draco stretched out and looked out at the lake. Then something Harry had said hit him. “Wait a minute—they didn’t mention wizards at all? Why the hell not?”

“They hated anything that they didn’t think was normal. They actually thought they could—oh, what was the phrase they used—‘Stamp it out of me,’ if they never talked about magic and told me that it didn’t exist.”

“Oh.” Draco didn’t know how to process this information. “Didn’t you do any accidental magic? Surely you noticed—”

“All I noticed was that strange things happened around me sometimes, and that I should try my hardest to avoid them. I got locked in a cupboard for a week when I accidentally set a snake on my cousin at the zoo.”

“What’s a zoo?” Draco asked. Then, “Wait, an actual cupboard?”

Harry nodded.

“That’s incredibly—that’s foul, that really is. Why didn’t you tell Dumbledore?”

“He knew. There was something to do with protective family magic—I didn’t really understand it. All I knew was that he told me that it was the only way I’d be properly safe.”

“Merlin.” After another moment of silence, he said, “Did you ever wonder—did you ever think maybe—he cared more about what you could do than he did about you?”

“Never.”

Draco raised his eyebrow.

Harry sighed. “Yeah, all the bloody time. After a while, I decided it didn’t matter. I had to save the world no matter what, so it didn’t make much difference whether Dumbledore really saw me as a person, did it?”

“Of course it did,” said Draco softly.

He didn't know what else to do except kiss Harry gently on the lips.

* * * * *

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I’m highly concerned with the  situation as it stands. It’s unclear which of you is the true master of the Elder Wand, and I’m sure you don’t need to be told how dangerous that is. Any time a wand as powerful as that one becomes hard to trace, there’s a risk of anyone taking ownership, and we can’t have the Elder Wand just float around changing allegiance._

_Here’s what I propose: if possible, you and Mr. Malfoy must come into my store together so that I can run a few tests. I understand that this might not be possible, and if it’s not, here is an alternative: get ahold of something he’s used magic on, and something you’ve done a spell on, and send them both to me. I can analyze the magical signatures and see whether they seem normal; one of them should have some signs of power that come from the Elder Wand._

_Regards,_  
 _Garrick Ollivander_

Draco destroyed the letter with a  neat charm, and hoped that Ollivander would drop the issue if he received no response. He never should have written in the first place; now Ollivander knew that something was going on involving him and the wand. Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? He couldn’t send anything, because then it would become obvious that it had been Draco writing all along.

He didn’t need to know the answer. It wasn’t that important anyway. The best thing to do was to let it go, and hope that the wandmaker did too.

As soon as he’d gotten rid of the letter, he saw his mother’s owl swoop down and deliver another letter. It was on thin, scented paper; her handwriting was even more spidery than usual.

_Dear Draco,_

_Now that it’s December, we should discuss your plans for the winter holidays. I understand that you probably want to remain at Hogwarts with your friends, but we’ve been given permission to visit your father for a brief time on Christmas Day. If you wish to remain at Hogwarts, I’m sure it would mean a lot to him if you would come home for the day so that you could accompany me. You are welcome at home for the entire break, of course, but I expect that you’d rather be at school than home, while everything’s such a mess. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine on my own._

_Love,_  
 _Mother_

“Bloody hell,” Draco said, putting his head in his hands. He hadn’t even thought about Christmas. The last thing he wanted was to spend the two weeks watching his mother fall apart piece by piece, but he knew that, whatever she said, she secretly expected him to show up anyway. How could he tell her that no matter how bad things were here, they were better than going home to the memories of all the things that had happened in his house? There were memories here, too, but they were better. They stung less.

He scrawled a note to give to the owl, trying to put off any real decision making.

_Dear Mother,_

_I don’t know if I’ll be able to come home over break yet. My workload is heavy, and I might need access to the library here. However, I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll certainly be home to visit father on Christmas Day._

_Yours Truly,_  
 _Draco Malfoy_

* * * * *

“Thanks, Potter,” Draco said as soon as he felt he could move again. He got up and started groping for his clothes, which were now covered in a fine layer of dirt. He’d have to set them out for the house elves to clean tomorrow. “I should head back now.” He got dressed, fully aware that Harry was watching him.

“‘Thanks?’ That’s all I get?” Harry asked bitterly.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Was that not enough for your fragile ego?” Draco asked, in a mocking tone. _Don’t start this, Harry. Not now._

“This has nothing to do with my ego. This has to do with the way you walk out on me every night the minute you’ve gotten in my pants.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting kisses and roses? We hate each other, remember?” Draco stood, ready to leave, but Harry stood too, and came up close to him. “What do you want?” Draco asked, feeling suddenly very drained.

“I love you,” Harry spat angrily. He might has well have been using the Cruciatus Curse, with the venom currently in his voice.

“No you don’t,” Draco said coldly, glad that there was a tree behind him to support his weight. He might have fallen over otherwise, from the shock of the words, if not the tone.

“Oh, and you get to decide that?”

“Potter, you barely know me. Of course you aren’t in love with me. Stop being ridiculous,” Draco said in his haughtiest tone. 

“We’ve been enemies for over seven years, and doing—whatever it is we’ve been doing—for almost a month. I’d say that means I know you better than almost anyone.”

“Well, you don’t get to love me,” Draco said, shivering from the cold. Bloody December.

“Why not?” Harry was coming closer now, looking as though he were either going to punch Draco or kiss him. (And in the end, weren’t the two of those the same thing?)

“Because I told you not to.” He was relieved to find that he could still manage a sneer; it made things feel more normal, somehow.

“Then what is all of this to you? If you don’t want me to love you, what’s the point?” Harry balled his hands into fists, and Draco thought that probably meant it was going to be a punch, this time. “And don’t you dare say ‘blowing off steam.’”

“It’s—” What was it, exactly? “It’s a temporary arrangement.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Harry unclenched his fists, and his whole body seemed to collapse. “I—I can’t do this, Draco. I thought that I—but I can’t sit here knowing that you’re using me and just be okay with it. I want something more than this.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to keep control of his emotions until this was all over. “I can’t give you what you want,” he said, opening his eyes. “I told you that. I never lied.” As a matter of fact, he _had_ lied, but not about that.

“I know.” Harry leaned in and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. Draco was too tired and surprised to even respond. Then Harry was gone, walking back up to the castle, and Draco would have liked to say that he didn’t watch him the entire way up, that Malfoys didn’t pine over people that way, but it would have been a lie and he was tired of lying.

He was tired of everything.

* * * * *

He wrote the letter and sent it with a school owl before sneaking back into Slytherin and going to sleep.

_Dear Mother,_

_I’ve made my decision: I’ll be home for all of Christmas Break. I miss you, and I’d love to spend time with you while I can. Will you pick me up from the station, or should I Apparate from there?_  
 _Love,_


	6. Chapter 6

Malfoy Manor felt big and hollow. Draco had never remembered it feeling that way before. It was large, yes, but the largeness seemed fitting, contained. Now it felt as though there were someone hiding in every empty room, and Draco often woke up during the night in a different place than he’d gone to sleep, even though he’d never in his life been a sleepwalker. There were rooms that had been used for the wrong things and now had to be avoided, and the Ministry had deemed them unsuitable owners for House Elves, so there was no one to go into the cellar when Draco was too scared. When he did go, to retrieve a vintage wine, it seemed sinister, as though everyone who’d been imprisoned there was there still, and desperate for revenge. After that, he told his mother that he didn’t much like the taste of wine anyway, so that he wouldn’t have to go back.

Spending time with his mother was painful, and several times Draco went to his room and cried after an encounter with her. She was so hollow that he sometimes felt as though he were the only person in the house.

A few days into the holidays, Draco had tea with his mother in the smallest parlor and the conversation turned to what he would do post-Hogwarts.

“Of course, you’ll live here,” Narcissa said, in a simpering voice. “There’s plenty of room, and it will be nice to have someone with a wand back in the house.”

It was tradition for the Malfoy men to take over the house, and, after a suitable amount of time, their fathers would leave them in charge and move to the manor in France, joining many of their peers.

The last thing Draco wanted was to follow this tradition.

“I suppose we’ll have to see what the next few months bring,” Draco said lightly, sipping his tea. “If I’m unable to get a job in England after the events of the past few years, I may choose to live abroad so as to live amongst my colleagues.” They never called it the war, but instead talked around the issue with phrases like ‘events of the past few years,’ or ‘what with everything that’s happened.’

“It’s a shame that you feel you have to work, Draco. I’m sorry that we’ve let you down so badly,” Narcissa said, setting down her tea. She had no blanket with her today; Draco’s first action upon entering the house had been to fix the temperature regulating charms to keep the house at a consistent temperature year round, rather than the three month stasis they’d been in. “But I do hope that you’ll be able to move in here. Before long, you’ll be meeting a suitable woman and settling down, and I’d like to be there to see it happen. You haven’t been seeing anyone lately, have you?”

_Well, Harry Potter and I were shagging up until quite recently, but now he wants emotional investment that I can’t give because I don’t have enough emotional energy to take care of myself, let alone to give any away, and I keep forgetting that it’s over and being reminded, and it hurts a lot more than it should, since all it was was sex anyway._ “Not lately, no,” Draco said tightly.

Narcissa pursed her lips. “What a pity. You know, your father and I became engaged in our seventh year of Hogwarts.”

“Well, I’m not you or father,” Draco replied tersely.  _Stop pointing out all of the ways in which I’m a disappointment. It’s not as though I didn’t already know about my failures._

“Of course not, but that’s no reason that you shouldn’t find the right woman for you. Now, I know things didn’t work out between you and Miss Parkinson, but you know, Newt Greengrass has two lovely daughters who would be appropriate. I’m sure you’ve met Daphne; she’s in your year at school, and her younger sister Astoria is a perfectly charming girl.”

_Astoria Greengrass smokes gillyweed behind the Herbology classroom when she thinks no one’s looking. Yes, that does sound charming. I’ll run right out and ask her to marry me._ “I’d like to get settled into a career before I think too seriously about marriage,” Draco said, looking for an escape route.

“Have you given any thought to what career you’d like to have?” Narcissa asked. She picked up a perfume bottle and absently dotted it on her wrists.

“I was thinking about—” Shit. Now he had to come up with a career. “I was thinking about pursuing potions in some way, or perhaps becoming an Unspeakable.”

Narcissa sniffed. “An Unspeakable! Loathsome people, all of them. Certainly not a career suitable for a Malfoy. Have you thought about going into politics? It’s been a long time since a Malfoy was Minister of Magic, but that might be just the thing to bring back the family honor after the—incidents, of the past few years.”

It was this suggestion that made Draco snap. “Are you mad? I can’t be Minister of Magic, Mother. Nobody would vote for me. Everyone knows I was a Death Eater! Do you really think, are you really crazy enough to assume, that they’d even let me on a ballot? I’m pretty sure there are laws stating that known criminals can’t run for public office.”

“Draco, darling, calm down. It was just a suggestion.”

“Stop avoiding the issue!” Draco shouted, standing. “Are you really just going to sit there and act like the war didn’t happen? Like Father’s just away for the weekend? He’s in Azkaban, Mother, the prison. Not some resort in Amsterdam. You’re acting like everything is the same, but nothing is!”

Narcissa glowered back at him. “Careful, Draco. You don’t want to say anything you’ll regret once you’ve calmed down.”

“Why the bloody hell shouldn’t I say what I want? You act as though the past few years never happened, you and Father both. Do you remember last Christmas? How the Dark Lord held a meeting on Christmas Day, so that there wasn’t even time to properly celebrate? Remember what Aunt Bella got me? A book of interesting ways to torture people. And now we’re acting like none of that even happened. What’s wrong with us? How can we have forgotten so quickly? Are we even real people?” Draco was getting frantic now, pacing back and forth with his legs bumping the table every time he turned.

“Malfoys don’t dwell on the past,” Narcissa said haughtily.

“You’re only a Malfoy by marriage,” Draco spat back. “And the only reason you don’t like mentioning the war is that you hate to admit that we were on the wrong side.”

“Not the wrong side. The losing side.”

Draco kicked the leg of the table, making the tea set shake and nearly tip over. “Come on, Mother. Look around. You’re living practically like a Muggle now, with no wand or house-elves. Are you trying to say that you’re somehow less good than anyone else now?”

She drew herself up proudly. “Whether or not I use my magic, I still have it.”

“That doesn’t change anything! What point is magic, if you can’t use it? Anyway, regardless of your view of Muggles, the Dark Lord was a power hungry maniac. Anyone with half a brain could see that. _Potter_ saw that, and you can’t say that he’s particularly bright.” Draco was near tears now. “Why’d you have to go and follow him? Why did you even get involved?”

Narcissa stood up, and suddenly she didn’t look small and helpless, but majestic and cold. “Draco Cygnus Malfoy, if you disagree so much with my choices, then what are you doing in my house?”

Draco’s face was a mirror image of his mother’s. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it, I don’t have to stay.” He stared at her for a minute more, then when she didn’t say anything, turned towards his room. “I’ll be gone within an hour. I’ll see you on Christmas when we visit Father.”

Forty minutes later, he stood in front of Greg’s house, shivering and willing himself to knock on the door. Greg opened the door, looking befuddled when he saw Draco standing there.

“I need somewhere to stay,” he managed to get out. “Pansy’s in Italy, and I don’t have anywhere to go. But if you don’t want me here, I’ll find somewhere else.”

Greg looked at him for a long time before nodding slowly. “It’s all right,” he said. “You can stay.”

* * * * *

Harry had been invited to stay with the Weasleys for the holidays, and had gladly accepted. Andromeda had asked him to spend it with her and Teddy, but he wasn’t sure he could face the memories of Lupin and Tonks for that long, and had been glad to have an excuse to decline. He would have tea with them the day after Christmas, but that was the extent of it. The one drawback to staying with the Weasleys was that he had to sleep on Ron’s floor, and every morning when he woke up a different part of him ached from sleeping on it badly.

One morning, a few days into the holidays, Harry had dressed and was about to leave the room when Ron looked up and asked, “Could you maybe—I need some advice. You got a minute?”

Harry nodded, and sat back down on Ron’s bed. “What’s up?”

“It’s—this whole thing with Malfoy. I’m trying not to let it bug me, but—I guess I’m not doing a very good job, since it’s driving me nuts.”

Harry had a few seconds of panic before he realized that Ron was talking about Hermione and Draco working on the project together. “Oh, right. Well, um—Merlin, are you sure you want my advice? You know I’m rubbish with relationships.”

“Not as bad as I am. It’s a miracle that Hermione and I ever managed to get together, really.”

“Well, then—what’s bugging you? I guess that’s the first thing to figure out, right?”

Ron laid back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, leaving Harry with the option of moving awkwardly to be able to see him or not making eye contact. He chose that latter, deciding that he’d rather not look his friend in the eye if they were going to be talking about Malfoy.

“I just don’t get it,” Ron said finally. “Why does she want anything to do with him?”

“Maybe you should ask her,” Harry replied, feeling a bit shaken that they were having this conversation.

Ron shook his head. “I don’t want to keep fighting with her. It’s just—a bit weird, actually. She wouldn’t talk to me for weeks in third year because I accused her cat of doing something that he didn’t do. How could she forgive Malfoy so quickly after everything he did?”

“Well, she was a lot younger then, and much more overwhelmed with everything.”

“She wasn’t a lot younger in sixth year, when she was upset because I was dating Lavender.”

Harry fidgeted with his watch, wishing himself anywhere but here. “Yeah, but that was because she was jealous.”

Ron sighed. “Do you get it, mate? It just seems bonkers to me. I mean, is there no respect for the proper order of things? We’re supposed to hate Malfoy forever, and then supposing we all have kids, our kids are supposed to hate his kids, and so on.”

“I think the war made everyone care a little less about the proper order of things,” Harry said quietly.

“And that’s another thing, innit? The war wasn’t even that long ago. Surely she hasn’t forgotten what side he was on?”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter as much as we all thought it did,” Harry said, wondering how much he could reasonably say. “Maybe—I mean, wasn’t the war about making a better world for everyone? Maybe that includes people like Malfoy, too.”

“I don’t care. I’m never going to get behind the befriending Malfoy thing, no matter how much people go on about house unity. There’s no reason to unite with scum that tried to kill us.”

Harry realized that his hands were shaking slightly, so he sat on them so that Ron wouldn’t see. “How much does it bother you? Is it bad enough that you’d break up with her?” _Is it bad enough that we won’t be friends anymore if you find out I shagged him?_

Ron shook his head vehemently. “After all that time spent having to figure out whether things could work with her? Not a chance, mate. I’ve grown that much in the war, at any rate. Loving her matters more than hating him. I just—I’d rather she wasn’t around him. I don’t trust him. How does she know he isn’t going to kill her the minute no one’s looking?”

“Well, judging by how much trouble he had trying to kill Dumbledore, I think Hermione’s safe.” Harry tried to keep his face neutral. “You should talk to her. But don’t yell like last time, all right? That was never your best strategy.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, I should. It’s just—I can’t lose her, you know? I don’t know who’d I’d even be without her.”

Harry stood and patted Ron’s arm awkwardly. “I know. I’m gonna go get breakfast, all right?”

“Yeah, all right. Thanks.”

* * * * *

The Goyles accepted Draco without too many questions, but then, they never really did ask questions. Except for meals, Draco spent all of his time in the guest room or out of the house, not wanting to push his luck too much by forcing his actual presence on them. There were times when he wished he could talk to Greg, but that ship had sailed a long time ago, and it was enough that he had a place to stay for now.

He had no lack of things to do; a nifty Undetectable Extension Charm meant that his bag had brought everything he wanted, included several books from the Manor. However, as Christmas grew closer Draco spent more time wondering how he’d handle seeing both parents at once, and often forgot that he was reading so as to spend more time staring off into space.

On Christmas Day, he went downstairs to join the Goyles’ celebration, trying as much as possible to blend into the wall. There were gifts for him, and he’d gotten the three of them the nicest things he could afford. These served a double purpose of Christmas presents and a way to thank them for hosting him. For Mr. Goyle, he’d gotten a signet ring and had the Goyle family crest engraved on it. For Mrs. Goyle, there was a bottle of elf-made perfume that had cost him more than fifty galleons. And for Greg, he’d gotten a Nimbus 2004, knowing that his friend had always wanted a nicer broom than he had.

The gifts for him were a little less elaborate, but then, he had crashed at their house with absolutely no notice, so that was to be expected. He received a broomstick servicing kit from Greg, and a few books about school related topics from Mr. and Mrs. Goyle.

Around ten in the morning, he Apparated to the closest Apparition point to Azkaban, where he met his mother and their escorts. The rest of the trip was taken by boat, as Azkaban was blocked from Apparation.

They were escorted past other prisoners, many of whom had visitors of their own. Because it was so crowded, Draco, Narcissa, and the Aurors were taken inside of the cell itself. This gave them marginally more privacy, but also meant that they were inside of a cell at Azkaban, which was not a pleasant place to be, to say the least.

Lucius gave the illusion of being in high spirits. “Narcissa, Draco,” he said, kissing his wife’s hand and shaking Draco’s. “How lovely to see the two of you.”

Narcissa nodded tearfully, and Draco managed to force a smile. _Do this for them. Your personal feelings about your mother aren’t what’s important right now,_ he scolded himself. _You can go back to being upset and hurtful to her tomorrow._

“How are you, Lucius?” Narcissa asked, sitting down daintily on the hard cold floor. She didn’t seem notice that her white skirt would get dirty, and Draco wondered if she even realized the Constantly Clean charms on it had surely worn off by now.

“I’m doing well, thank you,” he said grandly, sitting cross legged beside her. “Draco, won’t you sit down?”

“Of course,” Draco said, sitting across from both of them. They would have been the perfect model of a happy family had any of them seemed remotely happy and the setting been less dismal. Of the three of them, Lucius was doing the best at giving off the illusion that everything was normal, but then, he’d had the most practice. Narcissa kept bursting into tears, and Draco’s fake smile was fixed so firmly on his face that he wondered if he’d ever be able to get his expression back to one remotely resembling normalcy.

“I trust your studies are still going well?” Lucius asked.

Draco nodded.

“And how are things around the house?” he asked his wife.

Her lips quivered slightly. “I miss having you around.”

“Don’t fret, dearest,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Remember, we are much more fortunate than many families in the world.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, but Draco also heard him whisper harshly, “Don’t shame me publicly like this. Malfoys don’t cry in public.”

Narcissa nodded, and took a few steadying breaths. “Are you eating well?” she asked him, sounding more like her usual regal self. “I’d hate to think that you were being underfed here. Our family has made many valuable contributions to the Ministry, and if that money was  being frittered away on unimportant things at the expense of those in Azkaban, well, I’m not sure why we’re even still contributing.” She said ‘Azkaban’ as though it were some sort of prestigious club, and this statement was made loudly, clearly for the benefit of the Aurors.

“They’re feeding me enough, although the quality is much less than what I’m accustomed to,” Lucius replied.

They frittered away the rest of the afternoon with the same sort of inane chitchat. Neither Draco nor Narcissa mentioned their fight, but the boat ride back to shore was silent, and as soon as they reached land, they parted ways.

* * * * *

Hermione spent Christmas afternoon with her parents, after a short celebration in the morning with the Weasleys. She’d been wanting to spend more time with her parents after bringing them back from Australia, and she planned to spend the rest of the holidays with them. After a little bit of persuading, Ron had agreed to come too, since he had yet to meet her parents.

Christmas Day had been fairly uneventful, but between the two celebrations it had still felt busy. The next day was a day of leisure; as soon as she’d eaten breakfast, Hermione curled up in her chair, catlike, and pulled a novel out of her bag. It had been a while since she’d read for pleasure, and she didn’t intend to move until she’d read at least five chapters, maybe more.

Unfortunately, within the first ten pages, she was interrupted by a voice saying her name tentatively. She marked her page and looked up to see Ron, looking distinctly nervous.

“Could I—maybe talk to you for a minute?” he asked.

“Okay,” she said, reluctantly returning her book to the bag. Ron sat on the couch opposite her, looking uncomfortable. This was his first visit to her parents’ house, which she had insisted upon happening sometime during these holidays. She had spent enough time with his family that she felt justified in asking him to spend a little bit of time with hers.

“So, what is it?” she asked, looking back at him.

Ron bit his lip. “I need you to promise you won’t get mad.”

“Well, that depends on what you’re going to say, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Can you at least promise to try to understand what I’m saying before you get mad?”

“That sounds reasonable.” She waited expectantly, but Ron seemed to be having a hard time getting the words out.

“This Malfoy thing is—I’m really worried, Hermione. I don’t think you should trust him.”

Hermione crinkled her eyebrows. Did Ron think that she and Malfoy were friends or something? “Of course not! Obviously I don’t trust him.”

Ron’s face relaxed a little bit. “Then why—”

“Why am I doing this project with him? Ron, do you remember the day on the train when we saw him getting attacked by Hufflepuffs, and you wanted to let them have at it, but I made them stop?”

Ron nodded.

“He’s not the bully anymore. He’s the one being bullied. And of course I don’t trust him, and we’re not friends, but that doesn’t mean I want him to get attacked. No one in the class was going to work with him by choice, and the only person who didn’t have a partner was Zacharias Smith. If he was stuck working with Malfoy, something was going to happen.” Hermione was leaning forward earnestly, trying her hardest to get Ron to understand.

“Something could still happen to you,” Ron said quietly.

“It won’t. Ron, something’s going on with Malfoy’s wand. I didn’t realize it until I started working on this project with him, but he’s not using it as much as he usually does. When he can do something by hand, he does. I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but I don’t think he’ll be able to curse me if he can’t even summon the books he wants. Besides, I’m fairly certain I know more spells than him, so there’s that.”

Ron nodded, but there was still concern in his eyes. “I don’t trust him.”

“I don’t either. But it was my responsibility to work with him on this project. He and Smith would have killed each other, and it’s my job as Head Girl to stop that sort of thing. If some of the adults would take charge and try to stop things from happening—but they aren’t. I’m half convinced that if Malfoy was murdered, McGonagall would pretend it had been an accident.”

“I doubt it’s _that_ bad,” Ron said skeptically.

“It is! Were you listening to the speech she made at the memorial on Halloween? Now, I don’t think we should spare a bit of sympathy for Death Eaters and Death Eater sympathizers, but Malfoy’s getting hit pretty hard by this, and his involvement wasn’t exactly his fault.”

“He had a choice.”

Hermione shook her head, wondering how she could possibly explain this to Ron. “None of us had a choice, really. The sides were chosen long before we were born. Your parents, and Harry’s, made the choice for you. And Malfoy’s parents—well, they made the choice for him.”

“Nobody chose for you, and you still made the right decision.”

Hermione’s laugh was brittle. “Right, because it would have made all kinds of sense for me to join a group of people that wanted me dead, or at least out of their world. No, my choice was made for me as much as yours was, and none of us know how we would have reacted in his position.”

Ron shook his head. “I’m trying to understand, but I just don’t. You can’t possibly think it’s okay for people to have that much prejudice against anyone.”

“I don’t think it’s okay, but Malfoy’s not who I blame. Ron, he doesn’t even comment on my blood status anymore. He thought he was going to die. What we need to be working on isn’t attacking people like him, it’s about fixing the system that allows people like Voldemort to gain power at all. We need to start undoing prejudices from the inside, and that’s why I want to go into Magical Law. I’ve got some big plans for the next few years; I want to entirely recreate the Muggle Studies program so that it includes seminar discussions about Wizarding privilege, and I’d like it to be a required class for all students.”

“Are we still even talking about Malfoy?” Ron asked, furrowing his brow.

“All I’m saying is that Malfoy is a symptom of the problem, and we’d do better to work on the problem itself. Besides, nothing could be better for him right now than working with a Muggle-born, because sooner or later he’s going to have to realize that I’m his equal. If people like me kept fully away from him, nothing would ever challenge his point of view. This way he has to sit in a room with me and realize that I have ideas and opinions.”

Ron looked baffled, but nodded. “I don’t really get it, but I trust you. If he does anything to hurt you in any way, though, I’ll bloody well kill him.”

“If he does anything to hurt me, you’ll have to settle for destroying any bits that are left after I’m finished with him,” Hermione said grimly. “I know the incantations for some pretty gruesome dismembering spells, and I won’t hesitate to use them.”

* * * * *

“Hey,” Ginny said, sitting down next to Harry on the couch. “Want to have a Seekers game?”

Harry looked out the window. “It’s a little cold for Quidditch, don’t you think?” he asked, pointing out the snow on the ground.

“It’s not snowing right now, and we’ll be moving. Besides, I need to get some practice in. I don’t know if Hermione told you, but the Harpies are going to have scouts at our game against Ravenclaw.”

“Ginny! That’s great!” Harry hadn’t even known she was interested in joining the Harpies; he’d forgotten that her life was moving on even if he wasn’t a part of it.

“Yeah, except that the game’s in a month and I’m already freaking out. So. Seekers game?”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry said, propelling himself up off the couch. “Should we meet outside in ten minutes?”

“Sounds good.”

The met on the pitch. The sun’s weak light reflected off the snow, which meant that no matter where they flew, the glare hit their eyes. Without other players, they raced to find the Snitch, but after only a few games, were forced to land.

“Blimey, that’s bright,” Harry said, rubbing his eyes.

Ginny was furious with herself. “I’m supposed to be able to fly in any weather imaginable, if I want to play professionally! How am I supposed to join a team if I let a bit of snow get to me?”

Harry laid down in the snow. “Hermione probably has a spell for that. You should ask her.”

Ginny lay down next to him. “Why exactly are we lying down in the snow?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. Just felt like it.”

“That was fun,” Ginny said after a few moments of just lying there. “Are you thinking at all of going into Quidditch?”

“I’m going to be an Auror,” he answered automatically.

Ginny propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him. “Why?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you never wanted to do all of the fighting you had to do. I don’t know why you want to get right back into that. I mean, I could see you wanting to be an Auror when Voldemort was on the loose, because of all of the resources you’d have, but now—it just doesn’t seem like something you’d be into.”

“Of course I want to do it!” Harry said, sitting up so that he could see her.

“Why?” she asked calmly.

“Because—it’s because I—” Merlin, why _did_ he want to be an Auror? He knew there was a reason, but he couldn’t think of it. He wanted to be an Auror because he’d always wanted to be an Auror. He’d never pictured himself in another career. “I fail to see how that’s any of your business,” he said haughtily. _Bloody hell, I sound like Malfoy._

“All right, calm down,” Ginny said, putting up her hands as though to call a truce. “I was just curious. No need to get all snooty on me.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I just think you should consider other options, is all. You have a lot more going for you than just fighting Dark wizards. What did your parents do?”

Harry blinked. “What did—Merlin, I don’t know. How do I not know that? They must have had jobs—I know they were in hiding for a while, but before that—I’ll have to ask Hagrid. I should know that. I don’t even really know what wizards do, besides working for the Ministry and playing Quidditch. Maybe I should have asked McGonagall about more options when I did my career consultation fifth year.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, lying back down. “I guess I do.”

* * * * *

Draco had owled Pansy earlier in the holidays to find out when she would be home, and as luck would have it, her family made it back to their house the day before they would have to go back to Hogwarts. He’d explained that he wanted to see her urgently, but not what he needed to talk to her about. Her front door had an elaborate knocker shaped like a dove; he tapped it with his wand.

The door opened immediately to the sight of Pansy looking distinctly worried. “Thank Merlin you’re here! I was going frantic, thinking about what might be wrong!” She threw her arms around him, almost knocking him over. When she released him, she looked back at him, face still creased with concern. “Is this a needing ice cream type situation, or a so bad that ice cream won’t do anything to help type situation?”

“I’m not really in the mood for ice cream,” Draco said, grimacing. “Could we just—could we walk through your gardens? I think I need to be walking to talk about all of this.”

Pansy nodded, and led him through her house to the back door. “Draco, you have to tell me what’s going on. Your notes made it sound—really bad.”

“Everything’s just a mess right now,” Draco said, kicking a rock. “Potter dumped me, not that I care, but I could use a distraction right now.”

“How come?” Pansy asked lightly. This was what he loved about Pansy, her ability not to push when she knew he was saying something hard. Anyone else would have made a big deal about the fact that something was going on, or else asked questions about the situation with Harry.

“My mum and I had a fight,” he said.

“That doesn’t happen very often, does it?” Pansy asked, stopping to smell a violet. They continued walking.

“Never like this. It’s always beneath the surface, some sort of passive aggression. There was yelling this time, actual yelling. She kicked me out.” The last sentence was said quickly, because Draco couldn’t bear to drag it out. “Your gardens are lovely,” he said. “Temperature Regulating Charms are quite useful, aren’t they? Without them, everything would be bare this time of year.”

“They’re very useful, yes,” Pansy said.

They’d known each other for so long that they always knew what the other needed at any particular moment.  Pansy knew not to respond with any emotion right now, just as Draco had known in the common room when they’d fought a few months ago that he needed to let her yell. Even when they’d been fighting, they knew what to do so that the other wouldn’t be too badly hurt.

“Where have you been staying?” Pansy asked, breaking off a lily and putting it behind her ear.

“I’m visiting the Goyles for now,” Draco said.

“Oh, are you and Greg getting along again?” she asked brightly. “That must be a weight off your chest.”

“We’re doing better. He doesn’t seem scared of me anymore.” They were on safe ground now; all of the information had been revealed, and if Draco needed to talk, he wouldn’t have to preface it with anything.

“What’s Potter’s deal?” Pansy asked, out of the blue.

“He wanted some sort of emotional commitment. Ridiculous Gryffindor behavior, but I should have expected something like this would happen.”

“And of course, you didn’t want to commit emotionally.” It was a question, even if it wasn’t phrased as one. Pansy was asking for a reasons as to why he refused to commit.

Draco couldn’t give one, so he responded to the surface statement only. “Of course.”

“How are you doing, Draco?” she asked, touching his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Never been better.”

When Draco got back to Greg’s house, an owl was waiting for him. It had a note written in Harry’s messy scrawl.

_I’m sorry everything happened the way it did. I haven’t changed my mind, but let’s not be enemies again, okay?_

Draco tore the letter up, wishing he hadn’t even bothered to read it. It didn’t matter anymore, and Harry should have known better than to bring it up.


	7. Chapter 7

With Harry gone, Draco’s sleeping habits got worse again. They had evened out for a while, with him sleeping at least five hours each night, but now he was back to tossing and turning all night long, sometimes managing to get a few hours of rest. Pansy knew what was going on, and often surreptitiously switched mugs with him so that he could get more caffeine in his coffee.

There didn’t seem to be an end in sight. In a few months, he would take his NEWTs and leave, and then he’d have to find a job and a place to live. He would never really sleep, and he’d marry whoever his parents thought was best just to get them off his case. He’d have to take the worst jobs, the worst places to live, and everyone would tell him he deserved it. Maybe he did deserve it.  

Life could never hold enough for him, not after all that had happened, and Draco started going up to the Astronomy Tower at nights again, to punish himself.

_Couldn’t kill Dumbledore couldn’t switch sides just stood there waiting for someone else to take charge and I couldn’t do it couldn’t do it couldn’t do it couldn’t care enough to give myself a reason to live no point no point no—_

Somebody burst into the room, knocking clumsily into the door. Draco turned to see Harry standing in the entryway, looking embarrassed.

“I should have known someone would be up here,” Harry said. “I’m sorry—I’ll just go now, okay? I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You don’t have to leave unless you want to,” Draco said, turning his head so that he was looking pointedly out towards the landscape and not at Harry. “I don’t mind.” A moment later, he felt rather than heard Harry sitting down next to him, looking out the ledge same as he was.

After a few minutes, Harry nudged Draco’s foot with his own. “How come you’re here? Nightmares again?”

Draco nodded. “It was a weird one, too. I swear, if Madame Pomfrey won’t give me some Dreamless Sleep Potion soon, I’m going to go out and buy the ingredients myself, no matter how expensive unicorn horns are.”

“Why can’t you just buy the potion?” Harry asked.

“It’s by prescription only, you prat. You think I wouldn’t have bought it already, if I could have?” Draco couldn’t quite keep the venom out of his voice, but then, he wasn’t trying particularly hard. 

“How should I know?” Harry snapped. “Anyway, Pomfrey probably has a reason for not letting us take it.”

“Whatever, Potter. Follow her instructions if you like. I don’t recall offering to make you any. How did you make it for yourself, anyway? You’re not that good at potions.”

“Well, Hermione helped,” Harry said. “Not that it’s your business.”

Draco nodded, and bit his lip. _Just leave,_ he thought. _I’ve changed my mind; you can’t stay here. I thought—I didn’t know it would hurt this bad. It was just sex. Being around you shouldn’t hurt this bad._

Without thinking, Draco put his hand on Harry’s knee. 

Harry moved it gently away. “What are we doing here?” he asked tiredly. “This wasn’t supposed to—we’re not supposed to be back here like this. It’s supposed to have ended.”

“It has,” Draco said curtly. “You’re the one who’s seeing this as something more than it is.”

“Well what is it, then?” Harry asked, turning his head so that he could look Draco in the eye.

Draco moved without thinking. Leaned in so that his lips touched Harry’s, barely daring to breathe. He was feeling more emotions than he knew how to put labels on, and as the kiss deepened, he realized how hard it had been to go without it. Almost like going without breathing. He felt as though he were drowning; everything blurred, and as their tongues explored each other’s mouths, all he could think about was the first time he’d swum with Gillyweed, how it had felt to realize that he could breathe something entirely different from oxygen. How it had turned his perception of things upside down and inside out.

After a painfully short amount of time, Harry pulled away. “No,” he said firmly. “You don’t get it both ways. You can’t tell me that this doesn’t mean anything and still expect me to kiss you whenever you’re feeling lonely.”

_I can assure you, Potter, if I really expected you to kiss me whenever I was lonely, neither of us would ever make it to class._

“Fine,” Draco said, drawing himself upright. “I’ll just go see if I can find Blaise. He’s always up for some fun, and he doesn’t get attached and clingy.”

He said it to hurt Harry, and it worked. Shock, and then pain, flashed across his face in quick succession. “Fine. You know—you can do whatever you want. Don’t hold back on my account.”

“He’s a better lay than you anyway,” Draco said, and left. It would be painstakingly easy for Harry to find out he’d been lying, but that didn’t matter, as long as for now, he had been as hurt by Draco was Draco was by him.

* * * * *

_Mr. Potter,_

_Has something happened to prevent you from responding to my last letter? It is imperative that we act, and quickly. You must bring Mr. Malfoy to my store at once so that this whole thing can be cleared up. I’ve been analyzing your magical signature further, with alarming results. There is something going on that has linked Mr. Malfoy’s magic to yours, in way that even I don’t fully understand. There is nothing more important than finding out what has happened._

_In the meantime, find something he’s cast magic on. Anything. I implore you, Mr. Potter, to do this for me, and for the whole Wizarding World. I don’t trust the Elder Wand any more than I do Mr. Malfoy, and the combination of the two could be absolutely explosive._

_If you don’t send me something Mr. Malfoy has performed magic on, I’ll have to find him and analyze his signature myself. This is too important to leave be._

_Regards,_  
 _Garrick Ollivander_

Draco wrote back the minute he read it, only worrying marginally about sounding like Harry.

_Mr. Ollivander,_

_I’m sorry for my lack of response. I’ve been trying to get some of Malfoy’s magic, but the matter has been surprisingly complicated. I didn’t want to worry you until I had something to send. How urgent is this? I can try harder, but I think you’ll agree that we don’t want him to get suspicious of anything. It might take me a few more weeks to get anything._

_Yours Truly,_  
 _Harry Potter_

“Fuck,” Draco whispered as he sent off the response. How long could he put it off before Ollivander would come find him and realize the truth?

How had he gotten into this mess?

* * * * *

Working with Granger was torture now. Everything she did reminded Draco of Harry, who was, of course, the last thing he wanted to be reminded of. If the project hadn’t been so extensive, and such a large part of their final scores in the class, he would have skived off.

“Did you read the book I gave you for over the holidays?” She asked at the next meeting, sitting down and pulling several hefty volumes out of her bag.

“In a sense,” Draco said, not looking up from his notes.

“In what sense?”

“I skimmed it and wrote down some important sections, but I didn’t read it all the way through.”

“Malfoy!” Granger said indignantly. “You’re as much a part of this project as I am. You could have missed something really important by not paying attention. If you’re not willing to do your share, I don’t know how you can expect me to make up for that.”

“I’m sorry, all right?” Draco snapped. “Excuse me if I find it a little hard to concentrate in that environment.”

“Oh,” Granger said quietly, brought up short. “I didn’t think about that. You went home for the holidays, then?”

“Yes,” Draco said, pulling the book out of his bag. “And I can read it more thoroughly now, if you want.”

Granger looked pensive. “Was it—how bad was it? I can’t imagine living in a house that Voldemort had stayed in.”

“It was a bloody picnic. Now can you drop it, please? If I have to hear your shrill, annoying voice one more time, I’m going to snap.”

“I suppose you visited your father in Azkaban, too,” she said, ignoring him. “I’ve never been to Azkaban, but it sounds dreadful. Are the Dementors still there?”

“Yes,” Draco said, gritting his teeth. He pretended to be engrossed in the book; surely Granger had too much respect for books to interrupt someone who was reading.

“That’s barbaric,” she said softly. “And after they spent all that time working for Voldemort, too, I don’t see how—that’s one of the things I’m going to work on, after I take my MULEs. Wizarding prison conditions are absolutely foul. How do they expect to rehabilitate people by sucking out all of their happiness? Prisoners are still people. They still deserve basic human rights.”

Draco looked up from his book. “Are you blind as well as ugly and annoying? I’m reading, Granger, reading the book you were just lecturing me for not having finished. Do you think maybe, just maybe, you should leave me to it?”

“Fine,” she said, looking hurt. “You’re in a mood today.”

Draco felt a twinge of remorse. It wasn’t Granger’s fault that his holidays had sucked and Potter didn’t want him anymore. “Sorry,” he said begrudgingly. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“You know,” Granger speculated, “That may be the first time you’ve ever apologized to me.”

“Well, don’t get used to it,” Draco said, turning the page of his book. “It probably won’t happen again.

* * * * *

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_You have two weeks to send me something from Mr. Malfoy. After that, I’ll have to take action. I’m sure you understand the predicament. As a celebrated wandmaker, it is my duty to act on the sort of information you have given me. I wouldn’t be able to claim my title in all fairness if I ignored evidence that could change the entire nature of wand use, not to mention the face of the wizarding world._

_I’d rather the information come from you._

_Two weeks._

_Regards,_  
 _Garrick Ollivander_

Merlin. What was he thinking would ‘change the entire nature of wand use, not to mention the face of the wizarding world’? What wasn’t Ollivander telling him?

He had to send something, and Ollivander already had his magical signature. The only thing that made sense would be to send him something of Harry’s. Then, no matter how Ollivander interpreted the information, Draco could reinterpret it, with the proper identities of those involved.

He didn’t quite understand how he’d involved himself in something so convoluted, but now that he _was_ involved, he was playing to win.

That evening he penned a note and sent it to Harry.

_Harry,_

_I’m sorry about what happened on the Astronomy Tower. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you, and I shouldn’t have said what I did about Blaise. Can you meet me there tonight? Just to talk, I promise. I want a chance to apologize in person. Meet me at nine._

_Love,_  
 _Draco_

Draco had been raised on the more subtle forms of manipulation, so it was fairly easy to push back the guilt, particularly regarding the word ‘love.’ It wasn’t _his_ fault if Harry interpreted that as something that mattered, and not just a way that would get him to show up. Draco was particularly proud of having thought to say he wanted to apologize in person. That would speak to Harry’s sense of fairness, or whatever it was that made him believe that sort of rubbish.

Bloody Gryffindors. Far too easy to manipulate, the lot of them.

Sure enough, Harry arrived at 9:00 on the dot. “Hey,” he said, looking warily at Draco. Then he frowned. “Where’s your cloak? You’re shivering.”

“Am I?” Draco asked, trying to sound surprised. “I guess I was so—I really wanted to see you. I was worried you wouldn’t show up. I guess I forgot.” He frowned, feeling his pocket. “I forgot my wand, too, or I’d cast a Warming Spell on my robe. It’s bloody cold, now that you mention it.”

Harry blinked in  surprise. “I guess you were—do you want me to try the spell? I could—I mean, that is—I’m not very good, but it’d be better than nothing.”

“Okay,” Draco said. He was a little disappointed that Harry had fallen for this so easily. He’d expected to have to work harder to get Harry to believe him. Of course, manipulation was always easiest when you played to someone’s weakness, and anyone who had half a brain knew that Harry’s weakness was helping people, just as Granger’s was books.

Harry moved closer, looking nervous, then raised his wand and cast the charm.

Draco smiled in genuine gratitude as his robe heated up. He hadn’t put any charms on it himself, worried that he wouldn’t be able make himself shiver otherwise. “Thanks,” he said, touching Harry’s shoulder briefly.

“So, you, uh—you said you had something—that you wanted to apologize in person?” Harry asked nervously, stepping back as though he’d just realized how close they’d been standing.

“Oh, right.” Draco was lost for words. He’d spent so much time worrying he couldn’t get Harry to cast a spell on something that he hadn’t even remembered the lie he’d told to get Harry to come.

While Draco was trying to come up with the words, Harry spoke again. “I actually—I wanted to—look, I’m sorry too, Draco. You were honest with me right away—I shouldn’t have gotten involved if it wasn’t what I wanted. I just—I don’t know what I want anymore. Not with you—I think I made the right choice—but with everything. Ginny says she can’t see me being an Auror, and I can’t see myself being anything else. The ridiculous thing is that I can’t even remember why I want to be one so bad.”

“Boo-hoo, you have to think about what job you want. Grow up, Potter. Everyone has to think about what they want to do. It’s called being an adult.”

“What are _you_ going to do then?” Harry asked, sounding annoyed. “Since you’re so eager to tell me that it’s something you have to decide.”

“I’m going to be an Arithmancer,” Draco said, naming the first thing he could think of. _Or any number of other things, but my lack of ideas is none of your business._

“Like hell you are,” Harry said. “You didn’t think past the war either, did you? We aren’t both supposed to be alive right now.”

“You’re wrong,” Draco said. “I thought past the war constantly.” _It was the only thing that kept me going through the war._ “But when you have as many talents as me, it’s hard to imagine devoting your career to just one. So if I’m undecided, that’s the reason.”

“Why are we doing this?” Harry asked. “You said you wanted to—we can’t even be in a room for five minutes together without me mentioning something you’re touchy about and you retreating into your ‘I’m perfect and everyone else can sod off’ persona. This—you know this is why we aren’t—why I couldn’t—”

“I don’t care,” Draco said. “You’re nothing to me, Potter.”

“You said you wanted to apologize.” Harry looked at him sadly.

“Well, I’m sorry that you couldn’t see that I’m the best thing that ever happened to you,” Draco said. “It must be difficult to be so oblivious.”

He did a very close approximation of storming out (except that Malfoys didn’t storm out) and went back to his dorm, pulling his curtains around him roughly so that Greg would know not to talk to him.

Then he took out an envelope and performed an Undetectable Extension Charm on it and dropped his robe inside. It was a nice robe, and he couldn’t afford another as good, but it was a small price to pay so that Ollivander wouldn’t find out the truth.

_Ollivander,_

_I got ahold of a robe Malfoy had done a Warming Charm on. Hope this helps you figure out the magical signature thing, because I don’t think I can steal anything else. Let me know what you find out._

_Sincerely,_  
 _Harry Potter_

He used a Sticking Charm to attach the note to the envelope and set an alarm for early in the morning so that he could send it off from the Owlery the minute he woke up.

Provided, of course, the he even fell asleep that night.

* * * * *

Draco couldn’t get his conversation with Harry out of his head. He stewed over it for the next few days, wondering why everyone seemed so attached to the idea of what they would do after Hogwarts. Half the time, he wasn’t even sure what he’d do the next _week._ The more he thought about this, the more it worried him, until eventually he set up a meeting with Newton, figuring his Head of House might have something to say on the matter.

When he got there, Newton was hard at work grading papers, not even bothering to look up when Draco opened the door. He cleared his throat. “Sir? We had an appointment.”

Newton looked up from his papers. “Oh, yes. Mr. Malfoy. Please be seated.”

Draco sat down in the chair offered to him.

Professor Newton looked at him expectantly. “You said that you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. You’re my head of House, and I wanted to have a career consultation. I had one with Professor Snape, of course, but at the time I didn’t expect to work. Now I think I’d rather like a job, and I was wondering what I could do with the courses I’ve been taking, provided that my NEWTs are satisfactory.”

Professor Newton nodded, and coughed dryly. “I see. Would you be willing to remind me what courses you’re taking? I have a list, of course, but I seem to have—” he gestured at the papers strewn about his desk. “It will take longer for me to find it.”

“Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, and Arithmancy.”

“I see. And of these classes, are there any you don’t think you’ll get an NEWT in?”

“I think I can pass all of the NEWTs, but I’m unsure of how well I’ll perform in Transfiguration. In Arithmancy and Potions, I’m confident I’ll get an O, and in the others I expect Exceeds Expectations.”

“Most impressive,” Newton said, sounding anything but impressed. “Well, Charms and Transfiguration are required for most fields, so you’ve set yourself up nicely, and Herbology and Potions go hand in hand. If Potions and Arithmancy are your best subjects, you could go into either of those as a specialized field.” He peered at Draco anxiously. “Unless you feel you’d be better suited to a career in the Ministry of Magic. It would be harder to be hired by them, because of your actions in the war, but it’s really up to—”

“It’s fine. I don’t want to work for the Ministry,” Draco interrupted. “So you’d recommend Potions or Arithmancy.”

Newton nodded, and pulled a few brochures out of his desk. “If I were you I’d go into the practical side of either of those fields. Making medicinal potions for St. Mungos pays fairly well, as does using Arithmancy to work with wards. Experimental potioneers rarely make very much, and theoretical Arithmancers only make money if they discover something new, which is rarely, if ever.”

“Thank you for your help,” Draco said, taking the brochures and getting up. _I don’t want to be practical,_ he thought desperately. Newton had said nothing about passion or interest, only how to make money. And these brochures were absolute rubbish; he’d mocked them all during fifth year when everyone was required to do a career consultation. A five year old could have said as much as the St. Mungos brochure.

He had to find something he wanted. He _had_ to. Otherwise his whole life would be like this, barely sleeping and requiring increasingly more caffeine just to get through his day. Sleepwalking through everything because nothing held interest and he was _just so tired._

There had to be something to give life meaning. If there wasn’t, Draco wasn’t sure what he’d do.

* * * * *

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, touching Harry on the shoulder. He was in the common room brooding again, although he plastered a smile on his face when he saw her.

“‘Course,” he said. “It’s just—classes are hard this year, is all. And I need to do well on my NEWTs, especially now that I’m not sure what I want to do with myself after school.”

Hermione nodded, trying to hide her surprise. Since when didn’t Harry know what he wanted to do? They’d made the plans a long time ago. “Not still on the Auror track, then?”

“Dunno. Everything’s been—really messed up lately. And I just— I’m tired. And I don’t know if I want what I thought I want.” He smile ruefully. “I’m sure that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“It’s fine.” Hermione took a deep breath, deciding to ask the question that had been on her mind for days.“Harry, I don’t mean to pry, but you’ve seemed sad lately. And Ron says you’re not sneaking out at night anymore, and I noticed you haven’t had a love bite in weeks. Are those—did something happen?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “What? How did you—why didn’t anyone tell me I had love bites?” He asked.

“You seemed really happy. Nobody wanted to jeopardize that. But now—Harry, are you sure you don’t need someone to talk to?”

“I can’t talk about it,” he said, sounding frantic. “I’m sorry, Hermione—I just—”

“You don’t have to tell me. But, if you ever need to talk—”

Harry nodded, and Hermione decided the best thing to do was to leave him for now. She headed towards the library, but before she got there, she saw Ginny quietly crying by a window.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, coming closer to her friend.

“It’s the Harpies,” she said, sniffing. “Look.” She handed Hermione a letter that she must have just received by owl.

_Ms. Ginevra Weasley,_

_I regret to inform you that we will not be able to send scouts to your upcoming game. The chaser position has been filled, so we are no longer searching for prospective players. You are still welcome to try out for the reserves in May._

_Hope you are doing well,_  
 _Gwenog Jones_  
 _Captain of the Holyhead Harpies_

“Oh, Ginny,” Hermione said, reaching over to hug her friend.

“It’s just—I was so sure I’d get the position. It seemed like fate, you know? God, I’m an idiot,” she said, wiping her face roughly. “I knew that there was a possibility that they wouldn’t want me, but I didn’t really think—it’s just hard.”

Hermione nodded, thinking of how she would feel if she didn’t pass her MULEs. The problem with this year was that everything seemed so laid out from the start. With no threat of Dark wizards disrupting anything, it was hard not to feel like everything was on a set path from here on out. Nothing startling or upsetting was supposed to happen, and they’d all be friends forever, no matter where they ended up, which was supposed to be in the places they wanted to be.

Hermione let go of Ginny after a few minutes, and was surprised to find that tears were starting to come to her own eyes, too. Because she was starting to realize how uncertain everything was. They could make grand plans, of course, setting out their lives using Cutting Charms and stone, but that didn’t matter. If Ginny didn’t get into the Harpies, there was nothing to say that Hermione _would_ pass her MULEs (which were rumored to be quite difficult), or that Harry and Ron would become Aurors, especially now that Harry was wavering on that. And with so much of her life controlled by the war, Hermione felt scared without the guarantee that now that the war was over, things would be good.

“What are you going to do?” she asked finally. “Do you think you’ll try out for the reserves?”

Ginny shrugged. Her tears had mostly subsided, but her face was still wet. “I don’t know. They didn’t even ask me for an individual try-out, like I was hoping they would. It would be open try-outs, and I’m not sure there’s a point.”

“Oh, Ginny,” Hermione said, wishing she had something comforting to say. Wishing that there was a way to put everything back on course so that everyone was happy again.

* * * * *

Harry made a point to slam into Draco’s shoulder when he walked past him in the corridor. It had been years since he’d behaved so immaturely, but now that everything with Draco (No, Malfoy, he was Malfoy now, why couldn’t Harry remember that?) was the way it was, all he could think of was wanting to make him feel the way Harry was currently feeling, wanted to vent his anger somehow.

He knew that he didn’t have the right to be angry, but that didn’t make it hurt less to see Draco walk down the corridor every day with Parkinson (were they dating now? He couldn’t tell), ignoring him.

He’d been an idiot to think that any of what had happened between them mattered.

He got into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, and Ron beckoned him to the seat next to him. “We’re doing a practical lesson today,” Ron said under his breath. “Charlie told me. We’ll be dueling.”

Charlie arrived in class a few minutes late, which wasn’t that unusual for him. He took his teaching duties seriously, but only to an extent, and that extent didn’t include taking them seriously enough to wake up on time in the morning.

“Morning, class!” he said brightly. “We’ll be starting a unit in Dueling today. The instructions are that you use moderately powerful spells on each other. Stinging Hexes and Trip Jinxes are fair play, but nothing too dangerous, right? Other than that, it’s official duel procedure. If you managed to get someone in a situation that would be life threatening in a normal duel, or if they surrender, you’ve won. The winner will progress to the next round against another winner, and so on until only one person’s remaining.” He stood. “I’ll write the names of the pairs on the board,” he said, standing.

 _Not Malfoy,_ Harry begged silently. It would be just his luck to be paired with the last person he wanted to speak to right now.

To his relief, his name was paired with Susan Bones, a Hufflepuff he knew vaguely from the D.A. As he counted names on the board, Harry realized that this tournament would take far more than one class period. Defence was one of the fullest classes; nobody had wanted to be defenceless in the last few years, and most eighth years had stuck with the classes they had already been taking, just to keep it simple. There were 24 students who would be dueling in this competition.

Hermione raised her hand, frowning. “In the last round, there will be three people left,” she said. “How will that work?”

Charlie grinned. “In the real world, you won’t always be dueling against just one person. The first several rounds will be regulation dueling, which only includes two participants. The last round will be all against all.”

“Are we starting right away, or do we have time to prepare?” Neville asked, sounding a little apprehensive.

“You have all of class today to get ready. When I see you back here on Wednesday, we’ll be starting the duels. Another thing you should know is that they’ll be timed, so that this unit doesn’t drag on forever. For the first round, each duel will take five minutes. If no one’s won at that point, the winner will be judged based one who was better overall. The second round will get ten minutes per duel, and the third will have 20 minutes. The final round has the entire period to duel. That way each round will take up a full class period without spilling over. Any questions?”

Parvati raised her hand. “What do the people who have lost do during the later rounds?”

“Everyone who’s out will watch the remaining duelers. Try to pick up a few pointers. But don’t throw the match just to get more free time. The winner will receive a 20 galleon gift certificate to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”

Harry was already running through a list of spells in his head, so consumed with this that for a few moments, he forgot to be sad about Draco.

* * * * *

_Mr. Potter,_

_I have received the robe you sent me with Mr. Malfoy’s magical signature. Thank you for cooperating. It will be a few weeks before I’ve fully analyzed it, as I’m going through a more extensive analyzing process than I usually do. I will send you some information as soon as I’ve figured it out for myself._

_Regards,_  
 _Garrick Ollivander_

Draco read the words tiredly, then crumpled up the page. Ollivander would find whatever he found, and Draco would just have to deal with the consequences. He wished he’d never bothered to write in the first place. He didn’t need to know what was going on with his wand. It worked well enough, and like so many things, he had managed to grow used to it.

* * * * *

“Stop pouting,” Pansy said, putting her legs in Draco’s lap. They were on the grounds studying; it wasn’t very nice out, but they wanted to get away from the rest of Slytherin, and a few well cast Warming Charms were all that they needed to be both comfortable and fairly secluded. “You’ve been moping around since the end of the hols.”

“I’m not moping,” Draco said. “I’m choosing to expend as little energy as possible because nothing’s very interesting right now. Not moping.”

“Draco, come on. You’re more miserable than ever lately. It’s not attractive, I can assure you.”

“I don’t care if it’s attractive.”

“You’re never going to get Potter back that way,” Pansy pointed out.

“I don’t want Potter back.”

“Liar. I’ve seen how miserable you've been since he dumped you.”

“He didn’t dump me. We weren’t dating. It was just sex.”

Pansy sighed. “Draco, you can go on telling yourself that until the world ends, and that still won’t make it true. Do you have something against being happy?”

“If being happy means dating Potter, then yes.”

“When are you going to stop punishing yourself?” Pansy asked, putting a hand on his arm.

“I’m not sure yet,” Draco admitted, deciding that he couldn’t argue anymore when he wasn’t fooling her. Besides, Pansy wouldn’t use it against him. “Maybe never.”

“Don’t.” She said the word so sharply that he looked up at her. “What happened in the war was not your fault. I’ve spent so long coming to terms with this, but it’s not because of us that this happened. We’re fucking 18 years old! Who cares what side of the war we were on! We made choices that nobody should ever have to make, and we made them when we were 16! It’s not our fault. We did what we had to if we wanted to survive.”

“Potter was younger than 16,” Draco said shakily. “He made the right choice when he was eleven, and then again when he was 12, and so on, every year until he didn’t have to anymore. It _is_ my fault.” He looked into her eyes. “The night that Dumbledore died, he gave me a choice. He told me the Order of the Phoenix could protect me, if that was what I wanted.”

“And then Snape killed him, and you didn’t have a choice anymore. Draco, it _wasn’t your fault._ It was the fault of a man who doesn’t exist anymore. You just got caught up in the middle of it because of your parents.”

“You think other people will take that as an excuse?” Draco asked, his voice rising in pitch. “You think anyone but you can forgive someone who was the Chosen One’s nemesis?”

Pansy actually laughed at that. “Draco, sweetheart, he killed the Dark Lord. Somehow I doubt he considered you his nemesis. Nice try, but you don’t get to use that as an excuse for not trying.”

“What do I get to use as an excuse, then?” Draco asked, trying to get back into the friendly banter he was used to with Pansy. He didn’t want to talk about his feelings (Malfoys avoided feelings, when possible, and avoided showing them when it wasn’t), and he certainly didn’t want to keep talking about the war because he was scared he’d start to cry.

Instead, his words did the opposite. Pansy looked suddenly serious. “You don’t get one. You don’t have to be happy all of the time, but you don’t get to blame anyone but yourself for your unhappiness. It’s not the Dark Lord’s fault that you can’t get over yourself and remember how to live.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter's a week late, but it was pretty hard to write, and the end of the school year makes it hard for me to get things done in time. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Contemplated Suicide

Draco finished his duel with Terry Boot, and turned, triumphant, back to the class. He knew that he wasn’t winning any friends by beating people who were much better liked than him (on the contrary, it probably just cemented everyone’s idea that he was evil), but it was satisfying, and he didn’t have any other way to get rid of his aggression.

“Good work, class,” Charlie said. “That was the last duel for today.” He waved his wand, and the dueling schedule for next time appeared on the board. Draco scanned the board, searching for his name among the six remaining, until he found it, paired with…

 _Damn him,_ Draco thought as he accidentally made eye contact with Harry, who looked as disconcerted as Draco felt. All of their previous duels flashed through his mind in quick succession, starting with Dueling Club in second year and ending with the day Harry had stolen his wand and run. The scar on his chest tingled slightly.

They couldn’t duel. Too many things had happened, too many very different things, for the idea of a duel to be a good one. He should have let Boot win, never mind the prize at the end. He should have known he’d have to go against Harry at some point.

Losing would have been better than this.

* * * * *

He was almost finished with breakfast when the letter came.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I need to see you urgently to get a better analysis of your magical signature. Be at my shop at 11:00 sharp this Saturday. If you don’t show up, I’ll have to go to Hogwarts and find you myself. I hate that I have to make that threat, but I cannot impress on you enough how important this is._

_Regards,_  
 _Garrick Ollivander_

Draco’s mind was racing from the moment he finished the letter, and within a few seconds, he’d thought of the only option open to him. He’d have to go, and he’d have to make Ollivander think he was Harry.

Polyjuice Potion, if made correctly, never went bad. He still had a vial he’d nicked from Slughorn sixth year; all he needed was the hair.

Draco sighed deeply, returning to his half-eaten oatmeal. Where in Merlin’s name was he supposed to get a strand of Harry’s hair? It was absurd. But if he didn’t show up, Ollivander would come to Hogwarts and question the real Harry, which would be a disaster.

He’d have to get Harry to meet him again. Or maybe break into Gryffindor and get hair out of his comb, although then he would run the risk of finding the wrong brush and becoming a different Gryffindor. Besides, judging from the state of Harry’s hair, it was doubtful he even owned a comb. A meeting, then.

Unless… Draco relaxed as he realized that he would be dueling Harry in a day. Nothing would be easier than snagging some of his hair, provided he could get close and make it look like an accident. The best course of action would be to make the duel devolve into a fistfight, which would get them both kicked out of the competition. Which meant that Harry would not be eager to let that happen. It would require careful finessing, and a back-up plan was of vital importance.

* * * * *

Draco woke up the next morning wondering how he would get through it. What he was about to do went against his basic instincts. He would have to sacrifice his pride and dignity in the duel to maintain pride and dignity elsewhere. Besides which, he would have to face Harry, and he couldn’t let himself keep the amount of distance he craved.

He and Harry were set to go last; Draco thought privately that it was because everyone thought of it as some kind of grand finale. They were both very iconic, symbols of one side or the other. To see them dueling was interesting, exciting. One could even go as far as to say it was titillating. But what this really meant was that once he got to Defence, he had to sit and wait through the other two duels before he and Harry got their turn. He couldn’t even bring himself to pay attention, because he was running through his head all of the things things he had to do to pull this off, and everything that could go wrong.

This whole dueling contest was a joke anyway. Harry was expected to win the tournament; if he didn’t, everyone would think it was a fluke. After all, what would anyone say if they managed to beat the wizard who had defeated Voldemort? Harry was too iconic; probably anyone who had a chance of beating him would lose on purpose, because the alternative was admitting that their Golden Boy wasn’t as perfect as everyone wanted him to be.

When it was finally time, Charlie made them get into the proper stance and bow. “Let the duel begin!” he said grandly. Probably he was as excited as everyone else, getting to see a representation of the Death Eaters defeated grandly in a public setting. Only that wasn’t what would happen. If Draco’s plan went well, Harry would be disqualified, too.

Thinking about this made Draco’s eyes gleam with satisfaction as he cast the first spell, a Stinging Hex to Harry’s left leg. He shouldn’t still feel this angry about everything that had happened between them, but he did, and causing Harry a little bit of pain made him feel better. Making him lose? That would be the most satisfying thing that could happen.

Harry winced, but retaliated more quickly that Draco had thought possible. “ _Stupefy!_ ”

Draco barely managed to put up a Shield Charm in time.

“ _Venite!”_ Draco shouted back, using a little known spell that sent a strong burst of wind across the room. Harry fell to the ground, but righted himself within a few seconds, responding with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. Childish, but effective, as it kept Draco busy using the counter-curse when he could have been fighting.

For the next ten minutes or so Harry continued to use easy-to-deflect charms, and Draco wondered briefly what was going on. Harry had much more dueling experience than him. How was he doing so badly? It seemed as though his intent was to let Draco get as many hits in as possible, while still remaining calm and cheerful.

It was terrible. It was antagonizing. It was… exactly what Draco needed, to make his plan work. Especially once they started yelling insults.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco asked, after casting a Burning Charm that singed the top of Harry’s hair.

“You wish,” Harry said, laughing. “Why should I be scared of you? I’m who got your loser father put in Azkaban. What could you possibly do to me?”

Draco decided that everyone would buy it if he attacked after that statement, since everyone thought he had no self-control anyway, so he lunged forward, knocking Harry to the ground. The pair wrestled for a few moments before Charlie managed to separate them with a Shield Charm between them. In that time, Draco had managed to get the hair he needed.

“Enough!” Charlie yelled firmly. “Malfoy, you’re disqualified for attacking without a wand.”

“What about him?” Draco asked breathlessly, cocking his head at Harry. “Shouldn’t he be disqualified too? He hit back.”

“Doesn’t matter. You started it.”

“No, he’s right,” Harry said. “It wouldn’t be fair to let me keep going. I could have gotten him off me with a Shield Charm or something.”

For some reason, this infuriated Draco. What was he playing at? Bloody Gryffindors with their sense of fair play. Where did Harry get off acting all noble and self-sacrificing?

“Are you sure, Harry? Because I really think—”

“It’s fine, Professor Weasley,” Harry said shortly. “I don’t need more dueling practice anyway.”

Everyone was forced to admit that this was true.

* * * * *

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Draco asked. “Pansy doesn’t know what’s going on, so you’ll have to avoid her, but other than that no one will expect you to talk to them, so that’s all right. And—”

“Don’t make me nervous,” Greg said. “I’ll take the potion, but don’t talk like—you’re freaking me out.”

“Sorry.” Draco handed Greg the glass with his own hair in it, and dropped Harry’s hair into the glass in his hand. “Well, here it goes.”

Draco had never taken Polyjuice Potion before. The taste was all right; at any rate, much better than everyone said it was. He turned, and saw Greg standing in front of him. It was like looking into a mirror, except that the image wasn’t flipped.

It was time to get ready to leave; he had to get off the grounds, and quickly. He’d chosen generic robes, to keep up appearances, and had managed to get ahold of a pair of glasses.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. There’s a second dose on my desk, but I hope you won’t need it,” Draco said. He picked up his broom and carried it out to the grounds, moving as quickly as he could. His hood was pulled up, but on the off chance that someone thought he was Harry, it wouldn’t do to be seen with his Nimbus 2001. If anyone recognized his face, it was all over.

As soon as he got outside, he kicked off from the ground, flying fast and low through the tops of the trees. Thanks to his escape with Snape at the end of 6th year, he knew exactly where the anti-Apparition wards ended. The minute he reached the spot, he landed, and almost before his feet touched the ground, he twisted.

He’d chosen a Muggle alleyway near The Leaky Cauldron as his landing point; people didn’t usually Apparate directly into Diagon Alley. It was considered poor taste, and anyone doing it was instantly noticed. Today, Draco was taking extra care not to be noticed.

He all but ran into the Leaky Cauldron, stopping for a moment to look around when he entered. It looked different than it had the last time he’d seen it. It seemed almost as if part of the building had been smashed to pieces and rebuilt. Dimly, Draco recalled an attack on it by Death Eaters last year; he’d known it was bad, but he hadn’t realized the full extent.

 _How many other things were more damaging than I thought they were?_ Draco wondered, before realizing that he needed to start moving again. Unfortunately, he’d already attracted someone’s attention.

“Mr. Potter!” the barman said, setting down the glass he was wiping. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again today! Have you changed your mind about the room?”

“No, I’m just—passing through. Remind me how long ago you saw me? I forgot to check the time, so I’m not sure.” Draco scolded himself for sounding like an idiot before remembering that it was Harry, and not him, who would take the fall for it.

“Not twenty minutes ago. Said you were in a hurry.”

“That’s right—I’m still in a hurry, actually, so I’ll be going now,” Draco said, quickly leaving the Leaky Cauldron. He stood in the alley for a minute before tapping the brick on the wall. He was considerably shaken. Harry—the real Harry—was already here, Merlin knew why, and he’d have to be careful not to run into him. He pulled up the hood of his cloak, even though it made him look like a Dementor, because the last thing he needed was to be recognized.

He made it to Ollivander’s unscathed, although several people stared at him as he ran past. _I’ll disillusion myself on the way back. No way am I doing that again._ Draco stood in front of the shop for a moment, then knocked on the door, taking the deepest breaths he could. There were so many things that could go wrong. For all he knew, the real Harry was here now. Boy, would that be a mess.

Ollivander opened the door and beckoned him in. “Mr. Potter, come inside.”

Draco entered the room, his apprehension growing as he sat down in the rickety chair by the door. “What—what sort of tests will you be running?” he asked nervously. “Do I need to do anything?”

“Just stay seated. I’ll run a quick diagnostic—no, a scan will be better—maybe you should give me your wand to look at—come to think of it, this will do.” He cast a spell non-verbally, so Draco didn’t know what it was, but Ollivander looked satisfied. “I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t move.”

Draco sat rigid in the chair, wanting nothing more than for Ollivander to return and sort everything out. He might not be happy with this situation, might be terrified that the truth would be found out, but maybe now he could at least find out what was wrong with his wand.

He looked up at the door Ollivander had gone through just as the man returned accompanied by—bloody hell.

Draco jumped to his feet. “What the bloody hell is going on!” he yelled, staring accusingly at Ollivander.

Ollivander looked back accusingly. “Mr. Malfoy, are you really surprised? I’m hurt. You know, I’m considered widely to be the greatest living wandmaker. I recognized your magical signature from the moment your first letter was sent.”

“You mean—you lured me here under false pretenses!” Draco cried.

“Let me explain,” Harry—the real Harry, the one who had come out of the back room with Ollivander—said. “We knew you wouldn’t show up if you knew the truth. And whatever else has or hasn’t happened, we still need to know what’s going on with our wands.”

“How long have you known?” Draco demanded. “The whole time we were screwing?” He didn’t care if Ollivander heard; Ollivander wasn’t important, and he doubted the wandmaker would tell anyone.

Harry’s expression was unreadable. “The whole time. Ollivander wrote me after your first letter. We agreed that the best thing to do was pretend he thought you were me.”

“Why? Why did you drag me here?”

Harry came out from behind the counter so as to stand closer to Draco. “Draco, we don’t know what’s happening. Something is going on with your wand, and it relates to me. I needed to know what’s happening.

A horrible thought dawned on Draco. “Is this why it was so easy to get you to do a spell on something I owned? You knew I needed to send it to Ollivander?”

Harry nodded.

“And that’s why Ollivander threatened to come to Hogwarts to find me. It wasn’t because this is important, it’s because he knew I wouldn’t show up otherwise. Merlin, that’s rather Slytherin, how did I not see that?” Draco knew exactly why he hadn’t seen it. He’d been too distracted to notice, too distracted by Potter and his own fears and worries.

Draco couldn’t look at Harry anymore without crying, so he coldly turned back to the wandmaker. “Tell me everything you know. If you’ve gone through all this trouble to get me to show up here, you owe it to me to at least say what’s going on with my wand. Or was it revenge that you wanted? Payback for my father locking you up?”

An expressionthat might have been surprise crossed Ollivander’s face. “If I wanted revenge, I’d have taken it by now. What’s important right now is the fate of the Elder Wand.”

“Is it mine now?” Draco demanded. “I know you know. Why don’t you just tell us and get it over with.”

Ollivander sighed. “It’s most—curious, like many things relating to Mr. Potter and wands seem to be. I’ve had my suspicions for a long time, but I couldn’t be sure until I saw you in person. Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter—the wand didn’t know who to give allegiance to. The Elder Wand changes allegiance easily, too easily, perhaps. When Mr. Potter returned the hawthorn wand, nothing should have happened, but the hawthorn and Elder wands have become linked. The Elder Wand was willing to change allegiance, but the hawthorn one wasn’t. The result is that your magics have become linked to each other, and the Elder Wand. Mr. Malfoy, you told me that your magic didn’t feel like yours. That’s because the hawthorn wand wants you to channel Mr. Potter’s magic.”

“Well, what do we do?” Draco asked haughtily. “I certainly don’t want to be stuck using Potter’s magic forever.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“There’s nothing that can be done. Your magic is bound by the force of the Elder Wand, which is much more powerful than any magic that would typically be used to break the bond.”

“What if I get a new wand?” Draco challenged.

Ollivander shook his head. “It might help, but I don’t think it will. You’re welcome to try, of course, but don’t expect it to do much good. It’s your magic that’s tied together, not your wands. There are things we can try, of course, but they could cause you serious long-term damage, so I wouldn’t recommend them unless your magic becomes worse, which you’ve said isn’t happening.”

Draco turned on Harry then. “How come it’s just me? Why aren’t you experiencing any of my magic?”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. Ollivander, what do you think?”

“Mr. Malfoy never touched the Elder Wand, but he was its master for longer. It became used to showing allegiance from far away, and now that it thinks he’s it’s master again, it’s doing the same thing. I’m not sure how your magics got involved. It requires a strong level of emotional energy for magic to bond like that.”

Draco accidentally made eye contact with Harry, but quickly looked away.

“Fine. It doesn’t matter anyway. Thanks for keeping me informed,” Draco said, trying to salvage a bit of his dignity. “I’ll be going now.”

Harry followed him out.

* * * * *

It was a betrayal of the simplest sort, a betrayal so simple and casual it was hardly worth mentioning, which was exactly the betrayal, because if Harry had just mentioned that he knew and Ollivander knew and probably Granger and the Weasel knew too, it wouldn’t have hurt the same way.

It hurt, because even though Draco was the one who’d kept saying it didn’t matter didn’t matter didn’t matter, here was proof, because the if Harry had cared enough about him to tell the truth, it would have meant that he was wrong, that everything they’d said and done was true.

Draco had never fallen for it, never thought Harry meant the things he’d said, and Merlin did he wish he had, because falling for it would have meant that it mattered enough to even pretend it mattered, which it didn’t, and it wasn’t even a betrayal because there was nothing to betray. No relationship, no emotional energy, nothing to give up.

* * * * *

By the time they left the wand shop, the Polyjuice Potion had worn off and Draco looked like himself again. He hoped that Greg had had the sense to take the second dose before it was too late.

Harry looked at him, a question in his eyes. “I guess we should head back.”

“I guess we should,” Draco said, casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself. “Do me a favor, will you, and don’t talk to me? You can Apparate back with me, and get back onto the grounds, but don’t talk. I don’t want to hear from you ever again.”

Harry didn’t respond, which was just fine with Draco.

* * * * *

The next few days were spent avoiding each other, and each day Harry got a little more angry. Because yeah, he hadn’t told Draco that he knew what was going on, but he also hadn’t thought it was that big of a deal. Ollivander had written him once, when the whole thing began, asking if he could pretend he thought Draco was Harry. It was only after things between them had ended that he started to hear more from Ollivander, and no, he hadn’t minded making sure to do a spell on something Draco owned, or getting involved in a fight so that Draco would take some of his hair, because at least then he got to be close to him.

So fuck Draco, and fuck his telling Harry not to talk to him. He had no right to be angry before he really understood what was going on.

The next time they ran into each other in the halls, Harry didn’t change course or look down. Instead, he grabbed Draco by the wrist and looked him in the eye, ignoring the other people in the hallway. “I need to talk to you.”

“Bugger off, Potter,” Draco said. “Don’t you have some damsel in a tower that you need to go after?”

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me. Listen, we can go somewhere else to talk, or I can just say what I need to say here.”

Draco’s eyes blazed with anger, but he nodded curtly. “All right, then. Lead the way.”

Harry lead him to a corridor that most people didn’t know about. “ _Muffliato,”_ he said, pointing his wand to the entrance so that they wouldn’t be heard. “I want to explain what happened.”

“Let it go. I’m not going to talk to you. I only came here so that the whole school wouldn’t know we shagged.”

“Listen, I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t know very much until we—and then I couldn’t have told you. You wouldn’t have listened, would you? So I don’t see why I was—fuck, Draco, I said I was sorry.”

“I’m assuming you knew by the time you cast the Warming Charm?” Draco asked coldly. “I seem to recall us speaking during that time. There was no reason you couldn’t have told me what was going on. And you wonder why I didn’t want a real relationship with you.”

That stung, but Harry tried to shake it off. He couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice. “Are you trying to tell me that it had nothing to do with—you wouldn’t let me get close! Do you really think—goddammit, Draco, why wouldn’t you let me love you?” His voice broke on the last sentence, and as soon as he said it he wished he could take it back. Take back everything he had said and done. Caring this much about someone who despised him was too painful. “You know, I really hate you sometimes.”

“I hate you too,” Draco said.

“But that doesn’t—you have to—all I knew was that there was something going on with your wand, and that Ollivander needed my help to—listen, I didn’t know it would—I didn’t even think it was a big deal. Damn it,” Harry said again, leaning his head against a wall and feeling more helpless than he had all year.

“You knew it would hurt me, and you did it anyway. I fail to see how that isn’t a big deal.”

“Well, fuck you then! It’s not like you’re the paragon of sharing information. You wouldn’t even talk about the war—the war’s been my whole fucking life! I don’t know how to talk about anything _but_ the war—and you wouldn’t let me in. You never let me in. I still don’t know—Merlin, I don’t even know how you feel about the war, not really, or whether you even care that we were on opposite sides—”

“How the fuck was I supposed to talk about that?” Draco demanded, coming closer so that he was directly confronting Harry. “How the fuck was I supposed to explain things I don’t even understand? I don’t know why the war happened, or why I did what I did, and you were just sitting there, demanding to know every intimate detail of my life—the war’s a blur, I barely remember what happened, except Voldemort’s constant presence. You don’t have anything to atone for—you’re the _last_ person I could talk to about any of this—” He paused, seeming to realize how close he’d gotten to Harry during the course of this argument.

Harry managed a weak smile. “You know, a few weeks ago this would have resolved in us making out.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Draco said, sounding more tired than anything. He turned and walked away, leaving Harry alone to wonder what the hell he could do about this, wondering if he really should just forget that anything had ever happened between him and Draco.

* * * * *

 _He’s standing on the tower again, wand raised but hand shaking, knowing that even if he does_ Avada Kedavra _it won’t do anything, because he’s too weak. Too pathetic, but he keeps his wand up because the minute he lowers it it’ll all be over, and the Dark Lord will kill his parents, if he hasn’t already, and what was the plan what was the plan oh right, it probably involved some sort of not hesitating, involved not being pathetic and useless, and Dumbledore is saying the words, and he’s_ so close _to lowering his wand, screw his parents and their choices, screw everything. He’s just so tired, tired enough to quit, tired enough to lay down and never wake up._

And then, in the present, Draco did wake up, but it was a halfway kind of awake, a kind of awake that wouldn’t allow him to be fully present because then he might be able to shake everything off and stop hating himself, and he hated himself too much to allow that to happen.

So he walked to the Astronomy Tower as though still in the dream, trying not to think or feel too much for fear he might remember his own existence. If he kept his mind very still, kept his thoughts in a quiet corner of his mind where they couldn’t be touched, it would be okay.

When he got into the room, he looked around, mapping out the scene. Dumbledore was standing in the corner, and in a few minutes, Amycus and Alecto Carrow would show up, and Snape and Greyback and Yaxley, and there would be nowhere to go but back to Voldemort. If only there were something else he could do—some other choice he could make—he was in the present, but he was there with Dumbledore, too, being offered a choice, but there was no choice, not if he wanted to live…

And then there was another choice, clear as night and day. He walked towards the edge of the tower, looked over to the ground. He was still keeping his thoughts separated, so that he wouldn’t know what was about to happen. He wanted it to be a surprise, and Malfoys didn’t like being surprised, but Draco loved to (not that he’d ever admit it, even to himself, but he didn’t have to now, because his thoughts were so quiet that he didn’t have to hear them), and he was still looking over the edge when something happened that made him wake up fully, remember who and where he was. Still hating himself, but controlled, the way it had been this year. What had he been thinking? Killing himself wouldn’t redeem him in the eyes of everyone who hated him. If anything, they would feel more right. The only way to redeem himself was to keep going.

“What are you doing?” Harry’s voice asked sharply. Draco spun around to the very odd sight of a body becoming visible in an odd way, almost as though he were dropping a cloak that made him—

“I knew you had one of those!” Draco shouted triumphantly, working out in his brain what had just happened. Forgetting for a moment what Harry had seen. “That’s how you got away with so much when we were younger.”

“ _What the hell were you doing?”_

He didn’t want to answer, so he turned the question around. “Why the hell were you spying on me?”

Harry had the good grace to look ashamed. “I wasn’t spying. I was up here already.”

“Invisible?”

“I saw you coming, and didn’t want to deal with you,” Harry said pointedly. “Now, your turn. Were you about to jump?”

“None of your business,” Draco said, but his frosty tone was belied by the shake in his voice, not to mention the fear in his eyes.

“You were, weren’t you?”

“I said it’s none of your fucking business, Potter!”

“Maybe not, but I still care.”

Draco rolled his eyes and headed towards the door, noticing once again just how green Harry’s eyes were. Harry picked the cloak off of the floor and and followed him. At first, he thought it was just because they were both leaving, but when Harry continued to follow him down the stairs past Gryffindor House (which could definitely be hidden better because honestly, half of the non-Gryffindors in the school knew where it was), Draco turned to look at him. “Are you following me?”

“Yes.”

“And why, might I ask, do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I’m making sure you don’t hurt yourself.” Harry’s tone was annoyingly earnest.

“If you’re so worried about me, sit on the Astronomy Tower to make sure I don’t got back there. Don’t just follow me everywhere I go.”

“There’s more than one way to hurt yourself.”

“Fine. Do what you want. Just get under that bloody cloak before anybody sees you.”

Harry complied, and Draco continued to walk, secretly a little happy that Harry cared enough about him to walk him back to Slytherin so he wouldn’t hurt himself. He didn’t even mind that Harry would find out where his House was; in all likelihood, Dumbledore had told him where all of the Houses were on his very first day of school to prove once and for all that Harry was his favorite. He did whisper the password rather than say it aloud, figuring he owed his Housemates that much. When the door swung open, he looked back, not entirely sure where he should be looking, and said, “Well, good-night.” He was careful not to say Harry’s name, because there could be someone still awake in the common room, but at least this way they would think he'd gone out for a secret tryst, rather sitting on the Astronomy Tower contemplating suicide.

He went into his dorm and got dressed for bed, before closing his curtains and slipping between the sheets.

“Um, Draco?” came Harry’s voice quietly.

Draco sat upright and looked up to see Harry slipping off the Invisibility Cloak and standing awkwardly. He swore inside his mind and cast a Silencing Charm around his bed curtains.

“What the _bloody hell_ are you doing here?” he asked.

Harry looked down. “I thought you knew I was coming in with you?” 

“Well, I bloody well didn’t. Merlin, Potter, couldn’t you have announced your presence? I—I got dressed in front of you!”

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Draco, come on. It’s not like you’ve never been naked in front of me before.”           

“Why are you here?”

“So you can’t hurt yourself. Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll set a Tempus to wake myself up and be gone before anyone’s awake.”

Draco sighed, but nodded. Harry curled up on the floor, looking as uncomfortable as it was possible for a person to look.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Harry looked at him. “You sure? Because I really don’t mind, and I understand—”

“Did I stutter, Potter? Yes, I’m sure. Now get in here before I change my mind.” Draco dragged his sheets off part of the bed. After a moment of hesitation, Harry climbed into bed with him. He was the politest of bedmates, keeping himself so firmly on his own side of the bed that Draco was certain he’d fall off. He kept his body to himself, and that level of self-consciousness made Draco even less comfortable than accidental touching would have.

“Fuck, Potter, loosen up a little.”

“I don’t want to invade your space.”

Draco did the only thing he could think of: he reached out and wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, pulling the boy towards him. “There. Who’s invading whose space now?”

Harry was silent for a moment, and Draco felt a stab of anxiety. Maybe this wasn’t what Harry wanted at all. “Is this okay?” he whispered.

Harry took a shaky breath, and nodded. “Yeah, it’s just—it’s not what I was expecting from you, is all.” Draco thought that was all Harry had to say, and was surprised when the boy spoke again. “Could I—could I hold you?”

It was said so quietly that Draco almost didn’t hear it. “Yeah, okay.”

Harry turned around in Draco’s arms and wrapped his own around Draco’s back. He might have said “I missed you,” but Draco wasn’t sure; Harry spoke too quietly, and it might have just been wishful thinking.

* * * * *

All thinking was wishful. There was no way out but in, and nothing terrified Draco more than in. He couldn’t take care of Harry, and Harry couldn’t take care of him. They couldn’t be together, and they couldn’t be apart. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed, and nothing ever would.


	9. Chapter 9

When Draco woke up, it took him a few minutes to figure out what was going on. Then he remembered the events of the previous night.

 

_Bloody. Fucking. Hell._

Harry was still fast asleep, head on Draco’s shoulder. Probably Draco should have woken him up right then and made him leave, but he needed a few minutes to get oriented. To figure out what the hell he was supposed to say.

 

Bottom line, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now, after things between them had ended and he wasn’t even supposed to care what Harry did. Merlin, had last night really happened? Even in his memories, it had the dreamlike qualities that had made it all so surreal.

 

What did Harry want him to say? Was he supposed to be happy about this? Distressed? Draco would have to wait for him to wake up, if he possibly could, so that he could model how he acted based off how Harry was feeling. Thank Merlin it was Saturday.

 

He idly rubbed circles on Harry’s back. This felt… _nice._ Nobody had ever held Draco like this before; he’d never fallen asleep in someone’s arms like he had last night.

 

The dormitory door opened loudly. Harry jolted awake, looking at his surroundings with a frown, probably still trying to work out where he was. Draco didn’t even have time to think before Greg said, “Draco, I brought you food from the Great Hall. I didn’t want to wake you up, since you haven’t been sleeping,” and yanked open the curtains. “I brought a muffin, and a banana, and—oh.”

 

Harry groaned and released his hold on Draco to bury his face in the pillow.  Draco wished that he could hide in his pillow too, but somebody had to deal with the situation. He sat up to better confront the situation. “Greg,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Leave the food on my dresser. We’ll talk later, all right?”

 

Greg nodded, eyes wide. “Do you um—I should probably shut your curtains.”

 

“Marvelous idea. And could you do me a favor and make sure nobody else comes blundering in here?” It was a mercy that Blaise wasn’t still in the dormitory.

 

“Yes, I—Draco, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I’ll be here, if you need me.” He pulled the curtains shut

 

“Fuck,” Draco said, burying his face in his hands.

 

“You can say that again,” Harry said, rolling over so that he was no longer buried in his pillow. “What do you think are the odds he’ll tell anyone?”

 

“I’m not sure Greg has anyone to tell, at this point,” Draco said. “Especially if I tell him not to. Fuck, he can probably hear us.”

 

Harry nodded, then leaned over the bed and found his wand. The spell he cast was too quiet for Draco to hear, but he assumed it was some sort of modified silencing charm. Then he turned back to Draco. “It’d be just our luck, to have everyone find out after things have already ended between us.”

 

_Well, at least now I know how_ he _feels about last night,_ Draco thought, feeling more than a little bit bitter. “Don’t worry, Potter. I chose my friends with the utmost discretion.”

 

Harry looked at him penetratingly. “You’re mad. What did I do? I thought after last night, we could at least be civil again. Is it still the Ollivander thing? Because you know I’m sorry about that, but I really thought I was doing the best thing, and if I’d known how upset you’d be I promise I wouldn’t have done it, but—anyway, you lied to me too, I don’t know why I have to keep explaining myself—”

 

“Potter, shut up.”

 

“Well, then tell me why you’re so mad!”

 

“If you can’t figure it out on your own, I’m certainly not going to tell you.” Draco folded his arms and sat up straighter. “I think you should go.”

 

“Don’t be a prat. Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on!”

 

“Leave now. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

 

“If we’re not going to talk about this now, you have to promise me that we can talk later.” Harry’s face was annoyingly earnest. “We can’t just pretend last night didn’t happen.”

 

“Sure we can.”

 

“Draco, I mean it. I’m not leaving until you promise.”

 

_I can’t promise you anything right now. Please, just leave before I start to cry._ “Fine. Meet me at eight tonight in the Room of Hidden Things.”

 

Harry looked bemused for a moment. “Oh, you mean the Room of Requirement! Merlin, why did we never go there when we were shagging? We could have avoided freezing our bollocks off.”

 

“Too many bad memories,” Draco admitted. “But I can’t very well avoid it forever. Okay, I promised. Leave now.”

 

He pretended not to watch as Harry pulled on his clothes, finishing with his Invisibility Cloak. “Until tonight, then,” said the disembodied voice. A moment later, Draco heard the door open and close, and knew that he was gone.

 

_Now all that’s left is to deal with Greg._

Draco waited as long as he felt he could get away with before opening his curtain. Greg was sitting on his bed struggling through a Transfiguration textbook, but he looked up when he heard the sound.

 

“Are you gay?” he asked. Greg never was one to beat around the bush. Not very Slytherin of him, but at least Draco knew exactly what he was dealing with.

 

Draco shrugged. “Probably.” All he could hope to do was play this off as if it wasn’t a big deal, and with any luck Greg would follow suit.

 

“What about Pansy, then? You went out with her.” Greg’s brow was furrowed, as though it were taking an immense amount of concentration to understand what was going on.

 

“Pansy and I only ever dated because we thought we were supposed to,” Draco admitted. It was the first time he’d said it out loud, but it felt good to be honest. “I never really thought one way or another about love. Just duty to my parents.”

 

Greg nodded; this was how it was in most pureblood families. There were so few of them left that love wasn’t even a factor. Arranged marriages were rare, but most people did end up with exactly who their parents thought was best anyway. “Is Potter—have you dated other blokes?”

 

“No. Potter and I aren’t dating, either.”

 

“Then why was he in your bed?”

 

Draco sighed, “I don’t know, all right? I have no idea what we’re doing. I just know we’re not dating.”

 

“Do you love him?”

 

“Does it matter?” Draco laid himself on his back on his bed. He didn’t want to look anyone in the eye right now, and the ceiling was such a nice shade of grey.

 

Greg looked stumped for only a moment before saying, “It does matter. If you do love him, you might avoid getting beat up by The Weasel. If not…”

 

“I know, I know.” Draco closed his eyes in an attempt to block out everything going through his mind at the moment.  “I’m going out,” he said suddenly, jumping up from his bed. He grabbed his broom and ran out to the Quidditch pitch. Flying was the closest thing to falling he could hope for right now, and he needed to fall to feel something.

 

* * * * *

 

Harry felt considerably shaky, as though all the wind had been knocked out of him. Everything had been going _well,_ or at least, better, until Draco had decided to be an arse. He still couldn’t believe that he’d been allowed to sleep in the same bed as him; he’d fully expected that Draco would make him stay on the floor.

 

The memory of falling asleep in his arms like that sent a warm feeling into Harry’s gut, but it wasn’t enough to cut through the anxiety about the argument he knew they would have tonight.

 

He wandered into the mostly empty Great Hall and ate a few slices of toast to settle his stomach, then took a walk by the lake. Ginny was sitting by herself near the water, hugging her knees.

 

“What’s up?” he asked.

 

“I’m just—I’m a little freaked out, is all,” she said. “Do you want to sit?”

 

Harry sat down next to her. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

 

“No, it’s just—I got offered a position on a Quidditch team.”

 

“Ginny, that’s great! What team is it?”

 

“The Salem Sirens.”

 

“Salem—like, Salem in America?”

 

She nodded. “I have two weeks to tell them whether I’m accepting. After that, they’ll start trying out other people.” She sounded strangely out of breath, as though she’d just run around the lake several times.

 

“What are you going to do?” he asked, leaning back on his hands. It was comforting to listen to someone else talking about their problems. “Are you going accept?”

 

“I don’t know. I mean, they’re one of the best women’s teams in the world—better than the Harpies, even—it’s the opportunity of a lifetime, it really is. But it’s too far to safely Apparate back from. I’d have to take a Portkey every time I wanted to come home, and that gets pricey. I’d have to live in Salem during the practice season.”

 

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t known there were restrictions on safe Apparition, but it made sense that there would be.

 

“I guess I’ll probably do it. I mean, I’d be stupid not to. But it’s scary.”

 

“Sometimes you just have to take a risk and hope it works out, don’t you?” Harry asked. “Sometimes you have to do something that might not work out for you at all, because at least it’s better than not knowing.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“And then if it doesn’t work out, at least you know you tried. At least you know you weren’t stopping yourself from being happy just because you were too scared to—to make a go at things, right?”

 

Ginny crinkled her eyebrows. “Are we still talking about me moving to Salem, or is this something else now?”

 

“No, it’s—thanks, Ginny. I feel a lot better now.” He stood to leave. “I’ll see you later, all right? I have a lot of homework that I need to get done before tonight.”

 

“Okay,” Ginny said, looking bemused. “I’m glad you feel better, even though you never mentioned that you were feeling bad and we weren’t actually talking about your problems.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Harry said, barely listening. 8:00 tonight couldn’t come quick enough.

 

* * * * *

 

Draco’s Tempus Charm went off at 7:30, and he started towards the Room of Hidden Things. In a situation like this, he needed every advantage he could get; controlling how the room looked was a quite important one. It gave him the illusion of being in charge of the situation, and wasn’t being in charge always an illusion?

 

On the staircase leading up to the fourth floor, he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. It occurred to him that the closer he got to the Room of Hidden Things, the slower he walked. Maybe he shouldn’t do this. Fuck. Why did he want to meet Harry anyway? He’d made it pretty clear this morning that everything between them was over. There was nothing more to say.

 

(Nothing more that was worth the memories of reaching for Vince’s hand and dropping him, Harry pushing the broom away and saying it was too late, wasn’t possible, couldn’t work.)

 

He kept the thoughts of Vince in a separate part of his mind; Draco’s strategy to cope with things was often compartmentalization. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of the frantic months spent trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet, which he wasn’t sure he was even capable of. Or when he’d finally managed to fix it, even though he was having second thoughts about what he was doing in the first place.

 

(And Vince casting the Fiendfyre, only he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it.)

 

He stopped again to take a few more steadying breaths. The memories were too intense; they dragged him inward, further into himself than he wanted to be. They pulled him back to sixth year, and he _was_ trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet, but he was also here in the corridor, and he was also watching Vince fall into the flames…

 

It was too soon.

 

The only choice was to bail, so Draco darted into the nearest empty room, sat down, and kept taking deep breaths.

 

Merlin, this was hell.

 

Now that he wasn’t trying to go to the Room of Hidden Things, the memories started to subside. They were still there, flickering on the edges of his consciousness, but they didn’t overcome him. He wasn’t ready to move yet, even to go back to his dormitory, so he stayed seated, half wishing he could Obliviate himself, remove the bad memories permanently so that he could remain indifferent, so that he wouldn’t have to care.

 

(So that he could be whole again.)

 

After a few minutes, he’d calmed down enough to convince himself that he hadn’t wanted to talk to Harry anyway. There was nothing to say between them, and now he had a solid reason to have bailed. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t make it.

 

A few minutes after that, he was feeling steady enough to pull out his Arithmancy homework. In spite of himself, he’d become interested in some of Granger’s theories, and it was painstakingly clear that their project would be the best in the class. He was so immersed in his work that he managed to forget who and where he was, and finally relax.

 

* * * * *

 

By 8:15, Harry was pacing the room, trying not to let his frustration get the better of him. Of course Draco had never planned to show up. What, in the name of Merlin, had convinced him otherwise? He’d just been trying to get rid of him this morning; that, at least, was clear.

 

At 8:20, he broke his promise to himself and pulled out the Marauder’s Map. It probably wouldn’t do any good, since he didn’t know the Slytherin password, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking, scanning the page for his dot. Only—

 

The only dot in the Slytherin dorms was Gregory Goyle.

 

He scanned quicker, scanning areas that seemed likely. Not the library, then, or the Great Hall—

 

He was in an empty classroom, and his dot wasn’t moving.

 

Typical. Bloody fucking typical.

 

Harry didn’t even think about whether it was a good idea before tossing the map back into his bag and grabbing it. Draco didn’t seem particularly likely to go somewhere else, but that was no reason not to move fast.

 

He ran most of the way, but slowed down when he got close. Outside the classroom, he gave himself a few moments to catch his breath before yanking the door open.

 

Feelings clashed inside him when he saw Draco leaning over a textbook, taking notes. The first was a warm sensation in his stomach as he saw how focused and beautiful he looked, followed quickly by extreme annoyance. Draco was sitting in here, _studying,_ when he’d promised to meet Harry half a bloody hour ago?

 

Draco looked up then. He ran a hand through his hair, looking surprisingly anxious. “Look, Potter, I know you’re about to yell at me about not showing up, but save it for someone who cares. I have nothing to say to you.”

 

“Bloody right I’m going to yell at you,” Harry said shakily. “You—fuck you, Draco, you lied to me. I’m so bloody tired of you lying.” He leaned back against a wall, feeling strangely as though he were going to cry. “After last night—we have to talk. If you didn’t care enough to come to the Room of Requirement, we’re just going to have to talk here.”

 

Draco pushed his chair back from the desk and turned it so that he was facing Harry. “Fine. Talk. Tell me about how it didn’t fucking mean anything, why don’t you? Or how you love me, but it doesn’t matter because I can’t give you anything in return, and the Boy who Bloody Lived deserves better than a fucking Death Eater like me. Or better yet, don’t.”

 

“How do you know that’s what I’m going to say?”

 

Draco stood angrily. “Oh come on, Potter! Just say it, all right? Last night was a mistake, you never should have stopped me, who cares if the sodding Death Eater goes and offs himself? I’m sure your friends wouldn’t give a bleeding shit. Granger would worry about having to do my share of the work for the project, and The Weasel would throw a bloody party. You don’t have to tell me that you don’t care what happens to me. I got the message, funnily enough!”

 

“How can you fucking say that?” Harry demanded. “After all—I told you that I love you, Draco! Do you know how many people I’ve said that to in my life? How can you think—of course it bloody well meant something!”

 

“No, it didn’t! You don’t love me. It’s just your fucking hero complex. I’d be the prize trophy in your ‘people I’ve saved’ collection, wouldn’t I?” Draco’s tone was bitter. “Maybe you really do think you love me, but I’ve known you since we were eleven, Potter. You like battles. You like having to fight for things. I’m not what you love, it’s the challenge.”

 

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Harry said coldly. “You don’t know how hard it was for me to fight last year, or how much I lost. You think I like challenge? You think I bloody _enjoyed_ the past seven years, with the constant battles and fighting and almost dying? You think I _appreciated_ losing people I loved to a bunch of deranged lunatics that don’t understand the meaning of love?”

 

Draco picked up his bag and crammed his book back into it. “See, that’s the just thing, Potter. You say that you love me, and that it doesn’t matter what side I was on in the war, and then you call my family deranged lunatics who don’t understand love. Well, I guess you’re right about me not understanding love, because I don’t understand how you can say you love me and expect to have it both ways. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving, and you’d better bloody well stay out of my dormitory tonight.”

 

He stormed out of the room, managing to somehow look poised and in control even as he did so. Harry slid down the wall and sat on the floor. He was so numb that it took him a moment to realize that tears were sliding down his face.

 

Once he’d gotten control of himself, he returned to the common room, which was, as usual, empty. Or, almost empty; Ron was sitting in a corner poring over the textbook for Defence Against the Dark Arts.

 

Harry didn’t really feel like talking, but he felt like being alone even less, so he approached him and sat down. “Hey.”

 

“Hey,” Ron said, looking up from the book. “Where’ve you been?”

 

“Around.”

 

Ron looked as though he wanted to press the issue, but instead said, “It’s crazy, innit? A few months from now we’ll be in Auror training. Assuming I can pass the Defence NEWT.”

 

Harry took a deep breath. He still hadn’t found a way to break it to Ron that he wasn’t planning to join the Aurors anymore, but he didn’t feel comfortable lying when addressed so directly. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I’m… not going to do it. Not right away, anyway. I need some time to think about things. I’ve been thinking about traveling after graduation, like people did when Dumbledore was a kid.”

 

Ron frowned. “But Harry, you’ve never wanted to be anything but an Auror.”

 

“I know. But I don’t know why. It seemed so right at first, with Voldemort on the loose and everything that was going on… but now that he’s not… I don’t know, Ron. I don’t know—I mean, how do I really know what I want? I’m 18. I still have a hard time deciding what I want for breakfast every morning. How am I supposed to just up and know what I want to do with my whole life? I just—I need some time.”

 

“Okay.” Ron nodded slowly, still looking crestfallen. “I guess if that’s what you need—blimey, though, it’ll be weird without you. Everyone expects the two of us to be in it together.”

 

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

 

“’S’all right. I wouldn’t stop you from doing what you want.”

 

Harry took a deep breath, deciding that it was time to come clean about everything. “Actually, there’s something else I needed to tell you, too…”

 

* * * * *

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ron said tiredly, once he’d yelled himself hoarse. “I didn’t even know you liked blokes.”

 

“It’s not blokes. It’s just him.” Harry didn’t know how to explain it better than that. He closed his eyes for a moment, suddenly more tired than he’d realized. “I don’t even know if I’m gay, even. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before—Ron, I love him.” He began to cry, but it was safe to cry in front of Ron, so he didn’t try to stop. “He’s such an arsehole. Why’d I have to fall in love with such an arsehole?”

           

Ron looked quite frankly alarmed. “Don’t cry, mate,” he said, putting one arm around Harry awkwardly.

           

Harry almost laughed to see Ron so uncomfortable. He wasn’t even crying that hard, just not really doing anything to stop the tears that were coming. “I’m fine, Ron. I just didn’t mean to be in a situation like this. Fighting Voldemort didn’t really give me much opportunity to figure out the whole romance thing. And Draco’s so hard to read. Half the time I’m pretty sure even _he_ doesn’t know what he wants.”

           

“I suppose I’ll have to get you a new book for your next birthday. _12 Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_ probably doesn’t have a section about what to do when your boyfriend’s an ex-Death Eater who doesn’t communicate well.”

           

Harry really did laugh at that. “We’re not exactly boyfriends. Anyway, I think it’d be hard to find a book that’ll help me. I’m pretty sure even Hermione would have trouble finding a book that covers _that_ topic.”

           

“Maybe you’ll write one. _How to Date a Prat,_ by Harry Potter.”

           

“People might think I was the prat in question.”

           

“They’d buy it anyway. I’m fairly certain you could write a book of sonnets about your toenails and people would buy it.”

           

Harry laughed again.

 

Ron looked incredibly relieved. “It’s pretty late, and I’d like to get some sleep. You know Flitwick will get that disappointed look on his face if I sleep through class again.” He stood. “You gonna be okay?”

 

Harry assured him that he would.

 

* * * * *

 

In retrospect, Draco was certain he could have handled the situation better. He could have at least stopped himself from giving away as much as he had. What the hell had happened there? He was supposed to be the one in control. Not very Slytherin, to lose his head and tell Harry everything that he was thinking, but then, Harry _had_ always had that effect on him.

 

He tossed and turned in bed that night, trying not to let himself think about how much easier it had been to sleep in Harry’s arms. How he hadn’t had any nightmares at all.

 

He didn’t need Harry. If it came down to it, he might be able to nick some Dreamless Sleep from the Hospital Wing.

 

* * * * *

 

Ron had made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t willing to keep Harry’s confession a secret from Hermione. From the rest of the world, yes, but Hermione had been with them from the start, and as Ron had said, she deserved to know. Harry tried to find her first thing after he’d eaten breakfast, but she wasn’t in the Great Hall or the common room. She’d been disappearing a lot lately to study for her MULEs in peace.

 

Harry could have summoned the Marauder’s map, but truth be told, he needed the time searching to decide how to tell her. For some reason, he was more apprehensive than he was before he told Ron, quite possibly because he didn’t know how she would react. Ron’s reaction was harsh, but at least it was expected.

 

After wandering around for a while, he found her curled up in the corridor near the Astronomy Tower, completely engrossed in a book.

 

“Hermione, I don’t want to interrupt, but—there’s something I have to tell you,” he said, striding towards her.

 

She turned to look at him. “What is it?”

 

“You remember those love bites I had a while back?”

 

Hermione nodded.

 

“Well, I think I should tell you who gave them to me.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been—well, I’ve… Malfoy and I were shagging.” It felt odd, to hear the words coming out of his mouth, almost as though he’d stepped into an alternate universe and was watching himself say it from a distance.

 

Hermione almost dropped her book. “What?”

 

“Up until the winter holidays, when I broke it off.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Hermione asked. Her voice was so low that it was almost a whisper.

 

“I don’t know. I don’t even really understand why—and I didn’t want anyone analyzing me before I figured out what was happening.”

 

“Are you gay, then?” That was Hermione, going from emotional to intensely detached and clinical in a matter of seconds when it came to things she couldn’t process.

 

Harry sighed and put his hands over his face for a moment. “I don’t know, all right? I barely even know why we—and I’ve been attracted to girls before.”

 

“So you’re bisexual, then.”

 

“Can’t I just be myself, and be attracted to whoever I’m attracted to?”

 

“Harry, that’s what bisexual means.”

 

“No, I don’t want—Hermione, I don’t need you to label me and stick me on a pin, all right? I don’t know—it’s different, with Draco, than it’s been with anyone before—but that doesn’t mean that I won’t ever feel this way about a girl… I just don’t want to decide right now, okay? I don’t need to know everyone who I’ll ever be attracted to. Just let me be.”

 

“You called him Draco,” Hermione said softly.

 

“I noticed.”

 

“Do you—are you in love with him?”

 

Harry put his hands back over his face. “Yes. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but please spare me the lecture for right now, all right? I know he’s a prat, and I know that he’s spent the last seven years calling you all sorts of slurs, and you have every right to hate him, but—just please don’t yell at me.”

 

Hermione nodded, but her face was lined with concerned. “You understand that we’ll have to talk more about this later, don’t you? When you’re feeling up to it?”

 

“I know.” Harry pushed his hair out of his face. It was getting far too long; he would have to cut it soon. “And I’m really sorry. This was never—I never meant for any of this to happen.”

 

* * * * *

 

Draco woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and shivering, although whether it was from the cold or from the dream he’d had was hard to say. He couldn’t remember his dream exactly, but he wasn’t trying particularly hard, either. It was better to forget.

 

His heart was racing, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep for a while, so he dragged his cloak out of its drawer and threw it on over his pajamas. He would just go for a short walk, and then come back.

 

He purposefully avoided the Astronomy Tower, opting instead to wander around the ground floor. He stopped to look at the hourglasses that contained the house points (in an unprecedented turn of events, Hufflepuff was by far in the lead), wondering where he could go that didn’t make him remember something he didn’t want to. Everywhere he could think of had some sort of memories attached; that was the result of being somewhere for almost eight years, eight years in which far too many things had happened.

 

He could choose which memories to encounter, though. With that in mind, Draco slipped through a side door to the school, the one that he and Harry had discovered which didn’t lock properly, and went out on the grounds.

 

This was better. There were still bad memories lurking on the edge of his conscious, but they were, for the most part, drowned out by a different sort of memory. Without really thinking about it, he followed the path that he and Harry had always taken, out towards the lake.

 

He was so wrapped up in his memories that he didn’t realize until he was quite close that Harry was there; not in his mind, but here and now. He considered going back when Harry turned around.

 

“I should be surprised,” Harry said. “That you’re here, I mean. It seems like we keep ending up in the same places—but I guess this one makes sense. We both have an equally strong incentive to choose here, of all places.”

 

“Sure you’re not following me?” Draco asked. It was supposed to sound sharp, but his voice came out sound breathless instead.

 

“I’m sure.” Harry threw a rock into the water. “So, I guess since we’re here maybe we should have that conversation after all.”

 

Draco bit his lip. “I thought I made myself pretty clear.”

 

“Yeah, but here’s the thing.” Harry threw another rock. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want. I’m not enough of an asshole to force myself into your life when you’re not interested. But we never actually talked. You never told me where you wanted us to go from here. So I—I guess I kind of thought we could do that now. And—well, I mean it; if you tell me to fuck off, I’ll leave you alone, but I—I just need to know for sure, one way or another.”

 

Draco was on the verge of saying, “Fuck off,” when something stopped him. Because if Harry was being sincere, which the bloody Gryffindor probably was, then that would be the end of everything.

 

“I don’t know what I want, all right?” He admitted, digging his toe in the ground. He looked down at his toes to avoid making eye contact. “And I’m still not convinced that you love me.”

 

Harry stepped forward and lifted Draco’s chin so that they were eye to eye. “Give me a chance to convince you.”

 

Draco leaned forward slightly, and so did Harry. Their lips met, and Draco slid his hands around Harry’s waist, a gesture both familiar and alien after so much time apart. He dug his hands into Harry’s t-shirt, pulling him closer.

 

“I’ll probably change my mind tomorrow,” he whispered against Harry’s lips. “This isn’t a promise, so don’t get all huffy if it doesn’t work out.”

 

“I know. It’s worth a try, though,” Harry said, before leaning back in to recapture his lips.

 

* * * * *

 

Trust was scarier than redemption, and felt far less attainable. Yet when he took off his shirt slowly, one button at a time, Draco was telling a story, giving a reminder by the scar on his chest and the tattoo on his arm how far they’d come, but also how far they had to go. It was the only way he could think to show everything he was thinking, the only way to let himself be young and stupid and follow his emotions.

 

Trust. What a heavy word, so heavy that it sunk into Draco’s collarbones as Harry nipped at them gently, soaking into his skin and making him wonder if maybe, someday, he could be whole.

 

He kissed Harry, kissed the scar on his forehead, kissed the scars on his hand.

 

There were a lot of scars, and he had them too. Harry was kissing his arm, kissing his chest, and Draco thought for a moment that maybe he really could make them better.

 

And there was still the idea of trust, an idea so small and heavy that it sunk into the cracks, the places where he’d broken and had to put himself back together, so small and heavy that when he came, he cried out and tears filled his eyes, and Harry stroked them away, whispering small words and heavy ideas into Draco’s ears.

 

Redemption was a joke, but trust just might be possible, and Draco was willing to give up a lot for this chance to find out if it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Right now, I'm marking this as a completed fic, but it's possible that there'll be an epilogue later on.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my story.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked this and want to see more of my writing, consider checking out my webseries [Liminal Summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r78WHQPkLCc&list=PL-dSw92PV9gyfCuq3a7gcxSGpoXFySkkD&index=2) on Youtube.


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